Plough

(Every once in a while inspiration strikes like an electric shock).

On November plough,
the damp, coffee ochre glints,
set with fresh-turned stones
that shine like almond flakes
beneath the milky streaks
of autumn’s pallid, westering sun.
Through heavy clinging sod,
slim spears of
timid winter wheat
dare to peer, almost curious
above the muddy, rutted
sodden parapet.
Descending, regally
a solitary kite circling slowly,
languid, like water curling to a drain,
holds a steady, balanced,
unhurried search for lunch

© Graham Sherwood 11/2009