Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Rain & Harvest to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
There is mud upon my boots from the fields I've walked and hoed,
And it tells the tale of the season in the clay that it has stowed.
It is red from the hill of cassava, and black from the river bank,
And grey from the stubborn maize field, with the dew still cold and dank.
I could wash it off in a moment, but I leave it on the mat,
For it's proof of an honest labour, and I'm proud of it for that.
My father wore the same mud, and his father wore it too,
And it links me to the ancestors who tilled the earth and grew.
The city folk may wrinkle noses at the smell of freshly turned ground,
But every bite they eat began in mud like this I've found.
So let me wear my boots with pride, with mud up to the knee,
For it's the crown of those who feed the world, and it's the crown for me.
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Commentary
Mud on a farmer’s boots is a kind of signature. This poem turns it from something to be washed away into something to be worn with pride.
“There is mud upon my boots from the fields I’ve walked and hoed,” and it tells “the tale of the season.” It is “red from the hill of cassava, and black from the river bank, and grey from the stubborn maize field.” The speaker could wash it off but leaves it, for “it’s proof of an honest labour.”
“My father wore the same mud, and his father wore it too,” linking the speaker to “the ancestors.” City folk may “wrinkle noses,” but “every bite they eat began in mud like this.” The poem ends: “let me wear my boots with pride,” for mud is “the crown of those who feed the world.”