Shaving Harvest

A hundred thousand corn flies
came here to drown,
a hundred more clung on
crouched behind the ear,
good job that head’s a little
long instead of round,
the pock holes and the pimples
little dimples are all there;

We survived the scent insecticide
foamed to the rough terrain
and ducked the ploughman’s plough
as it came down
went back again,
though we’re always cut
off in our pride
flushed down the drain,
our corn deep rooted stubble plants
skin deep they still remain.

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his right to be recognised as the author of this work)

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