He dug deep in the soil,
the loam and silt of a fertile marsh;
from a long line of broken-back men,
inured to suffering and pain,
consistent with their DNA
from far distant crescents.
The men who toiled and fed the idle,
who gave their all to generations,
many to rot in the quagmires
of pointless conflicts, or like him —
alone, prostrate in his garden.

Copyright Francis 2021