We were eating our tea on Monday when the sound of machinery outside drew our attention. There were five monster tractors and trailers gathering around the heap of manure that has been waiting patiently for weeks, 50 yards from our sitting room windows. The poem fought to get out.
A covey of trailered tractors
converge around the heap of oosh,
pow wow, divide the labour,
to share the dance, with teamwork
fit for a world cup match.
Solo artist, yellow, drops scoop
to snatch a load too heavy,
so the back lifts off the ground
in graceful headstand
before disgorging into a spreader
each trailer dips as it fills,
sets off to find a space
to perform the graceful ritual.
Arcs of precious nourishment
flow out in rainbows.
To and fro in turn
each trailer-load flies out behind.
The formal movement finishes
as the heap of oosh diminishes.
The grateful earth
receives the aromatic manna,
ready for the seed.
Yesterday the sunniest, warmest day of spring, I washed some quilts and spread them in the garden to dry. Calamity: a tractor was back and the earth was limed, with air full of dust, so quilts were bundled in again. The next to arrive was the slurry tanker with outspread arms, to complete the process. Bit niffy, that one.
Today one solitary folorn tractor is harrowing the huge field
Soon it will be seeded, and before we can say growth, tall waving corn will cut off our lovely view of trees and meadows.
.Napowrimo Day 10