The Ranch Fence (re-write of The Fence)

[onepapa]

Sun-greyed posts and sagging barbed wire
enforce the pasture's discipline.
Rusted barbs, still achingly sharp,
remind the cattle of what is, and what is not allowed.

Grandfather and I built that fence fifty years past.
My back wet from driving pick and shovel
into hard packed earth,
placing fresh cut posts exactly where he pointed.

My fingers like broken sticks from
stretching glistening barbed wire and
hammering the fastening staples,
fixing the wire in perfect lines.

My Grandson suggests electronic collars
can tell cattle the boundary.
I hand him a wire stretcher and hammer
and remind him to bring work gloves.

______________


The Fence

I watch the ghosts in the evening haze
along the pasture fence.

We built that fence fifty years ago,
my back wet from driving pick and shovel,
placing the posts exactly where Grandfather pointed.

My aching fingers like broken sticks
from stretching barbed wire in perfect lines
on posts flawlessly spaced.

He towered above me.
"Build it well," he said,
"and it will last longer than we will."

A breeze swirls the ghosts and haze away
from the glistening taut wire.