Lent Poem #28

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The farm near where I live had a field of kale which, when harvested, left an expanse of bare stalks  resembling the aftermath of a plague of locusts. Over the last few days these were cut down, leaving a pungent smell of rotting vegetation in the air, but thankfully today the soil has been turned awaiting a new crop.

 

The stench of rotted stems

and crushed and crippled roots

fills air and nostrils alike

with eye-watering intensity.

The harrow drags the corpsed stalks,

relics of a dead season,

to a new destiny,

renewing the energy-sapped soil.

Glinting discs sculpt the furrows,

as the tractor’s engine drums

the rhythm of a new season.

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