Another ploughing-match poem…
Inching forward, earthworm-slow,
Eyes front, rigid as a guardsman
He opens up the ground.
From this first furrow all others follow;
With coulter, mouldboard, share and landside
The battle line is drawn.
At once, the Sussex clay
With a night and day of rain in it
Clogs and butters churning tyres
Sets front wheels slickly sliding
Plucks at the plough; leaks, collapses.
But in our annual fixture with the fields
We lead the land three thousand-nil
And this year will not break our streak.