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.