The river swells at hillside

He was born to peace, yes to food without grease,
Every clothe he wore bore a coarse, crease, he slept above the nest of geese,
Before knowing much, he could say please, for that was the only life’s lease,
The village bore the brunt of fleece; it was an evil grip never to release.

Every time the east burnt, mother still, set out to till near the ranch,
Baby always lay beneath the leafy plant, that mother hoed through in bare crunch,
Mother never stopped to runt, even though her baby tried to latch,
Father never got his fair brunt, being always away, throwing nets without a catch.

Father and son shared not a day light, but were knit by age-old right,
Hard was the boy’s plight, but father worked hard to quell the fright,
Father always arrived at fall of night; his coming characterized by a round light,
Harsh was the boy’s possible fight, but father would say in smallness lay sound might.

Odds would be smoothed by the rod; trails would, with passage of time, make roads,
Old thoughts were made the code, frail ones would, with courage and chime make goads,
Just as ripples form into great tides, sparrows balloon into crows!
Must he now make streak strides? Should he be restrained and tamed as he grows?

No silver spoon at birth, only dark clouds that shield a silver lining,
That presents no berth, only a park with a field to saver shining,
Though this is no easy path, it will not stop “his east” from burning,
Just a year into no easy birth, this rascal cannot be stopped from running.

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