The Peasant

Harvested fields where the peasant goes, Beneath the sun, where the wildflower grows; His hands are worn, but his eyes are bright, He toils each day through the morning light.

Each furrow turned, each seed that’s sown, In the hope of earth and the seeds that bloom, He tends the orchard, he tends the land, With love that stirs a gentle hand.

And as the day drips to evening gold, He gathers fruit, the rich and bold, To feed his kin with a humble feast, For in their joys, his heart’s released.

Oh, the peasant knows beneath the stars, The soil holds stories, ancient scars, Yet in the quiet of this restful land, He finds peace, with the world at hand.

• Edward Thomas