I am on the verge of moving from suburbia to the countryside and have spent the last few days in a very rural setting. The surrounding farmland has been prepared for the next season’s crops with the inevitable stench of fertilizer being ploughed into the soil.  This reminded me of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago at a similar time of the year.



The stench of rotted stems

and crushed and crippled roots

engulfs the field, where the harrow

drags the corpsed stalks

of a dead season to a new destiny,

renewing the energy-sapped soil.

Glinting discs sculpt the furrows,

while the tractor’s engine drums

the rhythm of the seasons.

A scatter of crows strut about the field

like a sleek posse hunting down a bounty.

A shotgun cracks and up they rise,

in a cluster of petulant calls,

and wait patiently, perched

in a glowering coven, ready

to descend again and peck

at the spoils of the newly turned earth.


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