TONY BEYER
Poetry—'Work'
      

on holiday
thinking about a job I had
when I was my son's age

he's taller than I am
and because he works out
better built

but could he
lift turn and spread
a wet sheep pelt

one every eight seconds or so
so it gets you in the backs
of the upper arms and in the spine

I'd rather
have had him with me
the late winter before

slashing weeds
and unwanted scrub
out of the holding paddock windbreaks

we'd go hell for leather
for an hour in the morning
leaving the cut green standing

then relax yarn smoke
pulling bits out bit by bit
the rest of the day

like anyone's father
mine taught me how to work hard
but never how to like it