Peter Bollington writes

Ploughing

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