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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
holding hands to the far horizon.