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To Harvest
the old man spent 6 hrs in the field. Tending
rows of tiny shoots. 6 hours
bent like a convert at the shrine.
melancholy donkey silent on the track
supping up dry stalks.
These are the gardens of the sun
where shoots are enticed from
the fallout
of an obliterated heart
the soil is soft, teams
of mules pull wooden ploughs
the old man with his
hands in the font of the soil, earthy and
blessed. Closer to the cycle, raising crops
from the dirt, to harvest.
Surely the old man knows what no
city dweller can. His hands delve in the guts of
the earth. He is part of it, bound there. Unlike
those of us condemned to the security of
concrete falls, minds in hyper space.
We are sweeties all in line, soft and
chocolaty. Our pale skins tear easily.
But the old man’s face is a leather sheet
cured by a thousand suns. His eyes are dark
and dusky, his hands are furrowed and channelled
like the fields he works.
We are plastic garden
ornaments, we are fake chandeliers, we
are crap leopard skin cushions. He
is an olive tree 3000 years old.
Dave Migman is a writer, artist and stone carver from Scotland. His work has and does appear on and off line.
Email: Dave Migman
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