A Course Grain On Our Hamlet's Field

a course grain on our hamlet's field

where talks the sparrows of the primrose.

heaven seed for our heathen crows on thrones of dusted wrecks

pawning our trees for a shilling and a crucified wretch;

our ploughmans plates of cut glass steam

feeding the engines of our kings

pork fat wine in a barefoot trance

musing the sketches of our secret limps on shaken hands;

mayqueen gold; as old as the dentures of our broom

sweeps her lovers dust beneath the pale skin of her rump

thumping the chest of her soil

boiling the baskets of her bake;

with a bibles belt for the shy skin of our corn

a harvest psalm where hides our scarecrows shade

blades the hunger of our furball phlegm

with saxon eyes for the torture of our cock;

stale hens charred with a surrogate mothers love tear

her wound of war from a soldiers battle song

dies quickly her touching the muscle of his neck

lives long in the memory of his womb;

with knives and spoons

with flossed ears in a barbewire moat

in safety; far away from the numbers

how long before she hears her soldier scream?