Breaking new ground

My own furrow

The man with the five-furrow
Reversible rig ploughs twenty acres
Of bristling, thistling stubble
Motley with pigeon, rook and gull,
Releasing soil-scents
Sharp as horse-sweat, apple-fresh.

At the gate, watching,
I must beware,
Not wish myself behind the wheel
Watching the clay pour over silver mouldboards
Behind me, burying a summer
That died before its time:

The jolly ploughman never lived
Except in songs
That few can now recall,

And were I confined
To that big New Holland
Four wheels would soon a prison make.
I must settle to my allotted labour
Till my own ground
Raise my own dust
With such implements as I have,
And hope, one day,
To bring a harvest home.

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2 thoughts on “Breaking new ground

  1. Hey thanks for the mail letting me know you moved 🙂 I will change the links on the blogrolls. I do think this place looks a lot like the old one!

    This is again a lovely poem, the rig ploughing away the Summer that never came.
    It is fascinating to see how farmers do it. I noticed cattle in meadows never move an inch, cows and sheep that is. They just stand and deliver milk and wool I suppose.

    It is a good thing agriculture machines took over most of the labour, as it must have been very hard work every day in that fat clay!

    “I must settle to my allotted labour
    Till my own ground
    Raise my own dust
    With such implements as I have,
    And hope, one day,
    To bring a harvest home.”

    I like the idea of raising your dust 🙂

    I wish you a good harvest!

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