raw farm acre men till tough potato, stalking wheat
beneath a beat heat braai sky,
raw sunsets come by,
are gone;
a whispering wind pickles the hair,
combine harvesters throw
warm clouds of chaff and dust in the air
making the skin itch;
in the hazy distance, a radio mast,
reminding one of Army bases
protecting soft East Anglian places
from any nuclear enemy switch;
bare pub Cottenham;
on tranquil water,
small boat bathe,
poor marsh insects fly.
by the northern part of Bar Hill where the Fens throw on,
gaunt acre winters grill bleak, open, frost crunching earth
beneath an ice spice high sky,
gaunt snowflakes come by,
are gone;
a whispering wind marinates the skin,
tractors plough, exhaust fumes rise
by skeleton trees that grow thin,
making the eyes run;
in the hazy distance, Girton, the Cam,
Magdelene, where student bike and town car meet
tight market bank square, Gray’s squash racquet street,
weak in the pm orange winter sun;
bare hedge Willingham;
on freezing water, ignorant ducks play,
poor fishermen try.
by the northern side of Bar Hill where the Fens tow on,
those that acre hunch fill haunting hot machine gun rent earth
beneath a night fright cry sky,
crouching snipers come by,
are gone;
a whispering wind exterminates fear,
in its wake, land mine, tank, bandage, blood, rape,
a child’s wet tear
making the pulse race;
in the hazy distance, carnage of Congo,
fighting, pillaging east Timor,
with the slashing torture of tank plane war,
mother, child, baby, of them no trace;
bare road Bluntisham;
on slaughter water, arms merchants make,
poor, ignorant cry.
otter, acorn, partridge, willow tree,
clay bank, fox; yes, time went well for me,
in one semi-built acre billowing shire;
beneath a fermenting Fen sky,
a whispering wind, a robin come by,
go on.
