There was Dai Puw. He was no good. <br />They put him in the fields to dock swedes, <br />And took the knife from him, when he came home <br />At late evening with a grin <br />Like the slash of a knife on his face. <br /> <br />There was Llew Puw, and he was no good. <br />Every evening after the ploughing <br />With the big tractor he would sit in his chair, <br />And stare into the tangled fire garden, <br />Opening his slow lips like a snail. <br /> <br />There was Huw Puw, too. What shall I say? <br />I have heard him whistling in the hedges <br />On and on, as though winter <br />Would never again leave those fields, <br />And all the trees were deformed. <br /> <br />And lastly there was the girl: <br />Beauty under some spell of the beast. <br />Her pale face was the lantern <br />By which they read in life's dark book <br />The shrill sentence: God is love. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-farm/
