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SIOBHAN COLLINS

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Harvest

 

The fields are cut.

The golden stubble

a spiky ‘number two’.

Swollen grain spilled from harvest

rolls and glows in the gutter.

Hay baled, old gold stacked against the barren season.

Machines bloom, giant flowers in the field.

Workers smear sun-blistered skin,

drink pastis in a cool courtyard.

Drink to their fathers

fathers

fathers

holding hands to the far horizon.

 

 

 

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