THE GLEANERS

Painting by J.T Harwood

Bending, kneeling, stooping,
a backbreaking arduous task,
all heads bent, eyes searching,
each face a tired, weary mask.
Gleaning is such a pretty word,
bringing to the mind falsehood
that laughter might be heard.
If we gleaned I’m sure we would
moan and groan and give up
part way through a hot harsh day.
If they stopped they would not sup,
but go off hungry to bed and pray
for strength, that on the morrow
some grain would be left behind.
They hungrily search every furrow
for starving is foremost on their mind,
they sweated and toiled in pain
gleaning from the harsh soil
enough food to eat once again,
death another day foil.
No glamour found in gleaning
just dirt, pain and rags,
the blistering sun is pounding
through an endless day that drags.

M Ann Margetson © January 17, 2001

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