Light flows along the stubble,
The bales stand stacked and browned.
Tractors cross horizons.
Day’s heat throbs over ground.
The buzzard flaps three beats, then floats
Past rabbits seed-grass drowned.
Crows march towards the wood in lines.
Long heat burns in the ground.
Corn prices soar. The driers roar.
Ice drips, elsewhere. But round
Machines, men’s throats, north’s small keen air
Drives our heat under ground.
Alison Brackenbury has just published her seventh collection, Singing in the Dark (Carcanet: "a quiet lyricism and delight" [The Guardian newspaper]). Full details and new poems can be read at her website.
