A Woman’s Work
A Dead Poets Live Prompt: Work

The drums, the drums, Beating to the rhythm in your head Toil, toiling In the relentlessly sultry heat Sweat diamonds sparkle your weary face As your fingers work intricately to the bone. Born to walk upright with dignity and grace Weighed down by calabashes filled brimful With water drawn from an early age Splashing to the rhythm of your swaying pace. Trek, trekking In the coolness of the dawn Through the midday sun Into the paraffined dusk Wrapper wrapped and well tucked in, You balance throughout your day The weight of babies on your back And babies suckling from breasts much too thin.
Plant, planting seeds For the future of a young continent You bend under the weight of your labour In the sun baked fields, devoted to Mother earth, The terracotta benefactress of life You, her daughter, are the vessel for her gifts. Harvest, harvesting in the heat The food, the fruits of an effort shared You cultivate in union the future of Africa Your ears resounding to the pounding of the yam, Wooden pestle stroking ligneous mortar To an ancient and familiar beat. Nurture, nurturing On early morning trips along dusty trodden paths To markets peddling your meagre goods For tirelessly generated pittances to pay School fees and costly doctor’s bills. You, the provider for all the family needs.
The drums, the drums Stomping to the restless rhythm of your tired feet.
Thank you once again David for this wonderful prompt:






