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