The Farmer sat on the gravestone

his sandwiches on his knee.

He studied the scudding clouds

with an air of vacancy.

“Another job well done!” he mused.

“We beat the weather too!

I did good this mornin´ -  tho’ blast it,

Nellie needs another shoe!”

When he felt a tap on his shoulder

his heart missed seven thumps.

He turned around and what he saw

was a ghastly face, all warts and bumps.

“Who are you?” he said with a frantic look

“and why are you bothering me?”

“I’m your death,” the Stranger replied,

“and your guide to a new country.”

“Can I finish my lunch?” the Farmer enquired

with a fearful tone in his voice.

“Just one more bite,” his death replied,

“you don’t have any choice.”

The taste of the ham was sweet indeed

and light as the clouds, the bread.

When he swallowed and stood and looked at

the stone – “This name is mine!” he said.

“I’ll tell you what,” the stranger quipped

“if you want another shot;

I ‘ll grant you seven more before

your latest breath.”  The farmer felt quite hot.

“Oh would you do me that?” He croaked,

with a tremulous, grateful sigh.

“But seven what – hours, months,

or years before I die?”

“Let me join you here,” the herald said

“and I will to you explain.”

The Farmer made some room for him

‘though it went against the grain.

“Seven ego-deaths is what I meant,”

the wart-faced emissary declared,

“excluding this one.”  He gave a wink.

The Farmer simply blinked and stared.

“What is an ego-death?” he blurted out.

“I’m not exactly clear.”

“That,” went on the stranger,

“is the crux and also why I’m here.”

The Farmer formed a secret plan

to change his given name.

“That will not help you in the least!”

the deadly messenger exclaimed.

It shook the Farmer to the bone

to hear his private thoughts exposed

but when he turned to face it out

his raging palpitation froze.

The man had gone.  No sign that he

had even passed that way.

The Farmer stood and spun around,

then bent his trembling knees to pray.

“Oh God my Father!  – Help me please

to come through this disaster.

Forgive my many sins and grant to me

the peace of life here-after.”

But answer came there none at all

and the heavens broke apart.

The rain came down like cats and dogs

and the Farmer clutched his heart.

But Lo! – a radiant light shone forth

from the Farmer´s sodden face.

“A guide, the spectre said he was,

I think I see the path he seemed to trace!”

With that, of course, the load slid off

the Farmer’s proverbial back.

A lightning streak flashed down

and split the headstone with a crack.

His humility was quite complete;

“Accepting life and death just as it comes!”

I’ll simply take this thing, my fate,” he said,

“Like a sparrow faces crumbs!”

Now friends my tale is all but done.

The moral’s clear for all and sundry.

Don’t picnic in the graveyard

or exalt yourself on any day,

from Monday through to Sunday !

A RIDDLE

Head down, nosing – I belly

the ground. Hard snuffle and grub,

I bite and furrow drawn by the dark

enemy of forests. Driven

by a bent lord who hounds my trail,

who lifts and lowers me,

rams me down,  pushes on plain,

and sows seed. I am a ground-skulker,

born of wood, bound by wizards,

brought on wheel. My ways are weird:

as I walk one flank of my trail

is gathering green, the other is bright black.

Through my back and belly a sharp sword

thrusts; through my head a dagger

is stuck like a tooth:

what I slash falls in a curve

of slaughter to one side

if my driving lord slaves well.

Translated from  the Anglo- Saxon  by Craig Williamson.   ( From The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book)

Answer: The Plough.