Seasons of Life by Audrey Cofield



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The Old Walking Plow

Farmers trudged the fields in days gone by
Behind the walking plow,
No tractor trampled or'e his ground
With noisy sounds, as now.

His children followed close behind
In furrow deep and wide.
His faithful team in harmony
Would labor side by side.

No fancy bait for fishing lure
In bait house then was known.
Each barefoot boy behind the plow
Picked up and had his own.

The dinner bell at noon would ring
An old familiar sound,
The horses picking up their ears
Refused to go on round.

Museums scattered or'e the land
Display this relic now.
While only memories linger
Of the rustic walking plow.

 

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1963 Audrey Cofield
First Edition 1963
Site Design 2002, Sharp Sites
All Rights Reserved
Posted for your enjoyment
by her granddaughter,
Jane Sharp Holman