PICKAXE AND BOOTS

Pickaxe and boots
Those are my roots,
To the man I am today
Years of graft
And toil
They were building blocks, the shoots.
I'll not see those days again
Consigned to working of the pen,
And what you see today
Pickaxe and boots
Muscle to iron
When boys turned into men.
Limbs now tired and strained
The effort is pained,
The times
Imprinted in my soul
An education in life
The knocks ingrained.
Those glances worthy
Youth, innocently swarthy,
Bleached by sun
The tanned arms
Sea blue eyes
Yes, that was me.
Finding ones voice
More Ford than Rolls Royce,
My card stamped
For the future
A life......
Of limited choice.
Pickaxe and boots
Those were my roots,
To the man before you today.
Behind me the graft
And toil.....
New building blocks and shoots.

Phil Hall
July 2015 Copyright philthepoet61.blogspot.com