Ploughed Field
Burgundy on brown, the thing is finished.
Thirty years sooner or later.
Night will always connect with the soil.
This bank of sky too early or too late
for evening light. I have never seen the harvest
only guessed the weight of clay.
A change of season that is purely mechanical.
The deadline is not always obvious.
Repeatable by quantity.
A bright November morning greets
the hoar frost smell of corduroy.
Imagining the roar of metal blades,
one works to form. So difficult to spot
where nature bleeds only to find its circuit
smashed and cut away.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
