Four men digging peats on the moor <br />Iain, Hamilton, Findlay, Neil <br />Cutting them neat with their flauchter spades <br />Pushing and lifting, hand and heel <br /> <br />Iain will die by a stranger’s car <br />(Oh how narrow the roads, and bent) <br />Under a sky of stars and rain <br />And a sickle moon in the firmament <br /> <br />Hamilton, he’ll have a living death <br />Dottled and rambling, thoughts awry <br />Pity the man of sense bereft <br />Like a grey scarecrow hung out to dry <br /> <br />Findlay, he’ll take a walk with drink <br />Down, down, down, into beggar’s lane <br />One more thing for the skip to shift <br />Dead in a night of snow and pain <br /> <br />Neil will die by a surgeon’s knife <br />Quick and easy he’ll quit his place <br />With three grown strapping sons behind <br />To fill his space in the human race<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/four-15/