Harvest

Clots of blood are sprinkled around
And hawthorn, furze and shrubs abound;
The acacia thorns and canker blooms
And ‘thorny pears’ enhance the glooms.
Twigs, lean and thirsty, bite the dust
And briars and wormwood pile and rust;
All furrows rotten flowers yield,
And sharp-edged stubbles rule the field.
Moth-eaten leaves with their breast sieved
For loss of mates are deeply grieved.
Rough quills of porcupines are lain;
On each side hot winds move their train.
Bubbles above the marshes lap.
The traveller finds each yard a trap.
We can’t recall what we had sown,
This is the harvest we have grown.