The Jacket

a cold morning in November
when brittle willows redden unnoticed
before rush hour hits
and she sees in her rear-view mirror
an old man driving with his wife
leaning warily over the wheel
hands close together
he wears a faded hat and shirt jacket
green
and she sees her grandfather
trudging through wet morning grass
past the unsacked potatoes and the apple trees
the muckheap outside the pig sty
now unused
up to the field track
from where he ponders
his lands

his hat is beaten
but his jacket is blue