free verse | Rural Fiction Magazine

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as
he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning,
or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

A Man For All Seasons (a poem by Sarah Das Gupta)
He was unique, his old trousers tied up with string,
One long thumb nail, grown to untie knots in binder twine!
Horse whisperer, sheepdog trainer, pig breeder, cattleman,
Out in the fields, fence mending, reading the cloud runes.
Watching leaden skies, prepared for the sullen face of the winter solstice
Dark, threatening, Saint Lucy’s Day,
One light in the mothy darkness.
Deep drifts, a mid-winter wilderness.
Yet he was cutting logs for bright kitchen fires,
Rich blazing flames of orange, red to challenge
The resolute, primeval darkness.
Soaked by rain, hair thatched with snow,
His soul lies beneath the frozen plough,
Awaiting another Spring!

“Viewpoints”

INDECISION

pebbles smooth mottled
held in the estuary mud
drift restlessly in the ooze
awaiting the ebb tide
or the river’s final rush



HISTORY

a deep snowdrift
 myriad footprints
a thousand journeys
       frozen in a
       moment of
           time



PERSPECTIVE

a flea seen through a
microscope
the great wall of China
seen from outer
 space



OBLIVION

the red sky of evening
cut into odd shapes
by overhanging branches
awaits night’s resolution

A Man for All Seasons

He was unique, his old trousers tied up with string,
One long thumb nail, grown to untie knots in binder twine!
Horse whisperer, sheepdog trainer, pig breeder, cattleman,
Out in the fields, fence mending, reading the cloud runes.
Watching leaden skies, prepared for the sullen face of the winter solstice
Dark, threatening, Saint Lucy’s Day,
One light in the mothy darkness.
Deep drifts, a mid-winter wilderness.
Yet he was cutting logs for bright kitchen fires,
Rich blazing flames of orange, red to challenge
The resolute, primeval darkness.
Soaked by rain, hair thatched with snow,
His soul lies beneath the frozen plough,
Awaiting another Spring!

Sarah Das Gupta is a retired English teacher who has worked in UK, India, Africa. She now lives near Cambridge, UK. Her work has been published online and in print in a number of magazines/journals. There include: ‘Paddle’, ‘The Chamber’, ‘Grave Light Anthology’, ‘Waywords’, ‘Shall ot’, ‘Cosmic Daffodils’, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Ashes’, ‘Mule Skinners’ and others.Her interests include, the countryside, horse racing, history and ghosts.

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