Ring rolling in a Bedfordshire field.
Breaking up the heavy clods
And leverets. Blind to the danger.
I stopped at first. Got down from the tractor
To shoo and scatter.
At first. Too many of the sods
Harrowing. The clatter
Flint on iron drowning out the sound.
What now in the bottom corner
On the heaviest ground?
Fur gloves with missing hands
And broken fingers. Pointing.
Too few the gods
Seed on the land
Grown houses.