Monday, April 18, 2016

Peter Bollington writes


I ploughed the earth 
in winter, 
smokey afternoons 
the hills in rags

dropped blade in soil 
frothing brown and damp, 
acres of sun

I dreamed and sailed 
straw, whirled the dust

I was a minstrel 
of the guitar tractor

I was the Worker 
in the Oven,

three o'clock fall 
mist at five

I ploughed those seas 
on the night wind, 
watched hawks full of wing

now I hear the axe fall 
near the heart, 
fields in silence 
ready but not due

the season rolls away 
to new blue fires 

 Farmer with a Pitchfork -- Winslow Homer

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