Wet furrows slowly churn, his plough horse snorts,
a farmer walks, lost to his morning world.
Clay sticks, yellow to the disc, he kicks at it,
the dawn sky is his citadel.
Harsh days, like summer, blaze in his memory;
confined to this land, his earthly flesh has made a pact.
His arms are held like tree boughs.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney