The Harvesters

Bright was the stubble, the sun that day
stalked through the sky and air disturbed
spun on the fork tines of two at bay
who lunged at each other without a word.

Blue denim let through so flesh folded in
three steel fingers to explore a heart
and clouds of anger dissolved in a thin
protest at taking a dead man’s part.

The team on the hayrack dozed in the heat
a meadowlark flooded his mate with song
the field shouldered up its shocks of wheat
the tale of a woman was right or wrong.

Later the fall rains spread their hands
to cover a season’s agony
but the clover field in future stands
bloomed for its own red ecstasy.