RUBBING RAG
FARM
There is no respect here for the state of art.
Your last active breath ends your favour,
puts you out with the bones and broken hi-fi,
and the stable door I stopped repairing.
At this why bother end of things,forced
muddy to the brick world for a full shilling,
we return home daily to open mouths.
The outhouse and old stables demanding bread.
At this why bother end of things, tradition
grazes where the dirt track turns to green.
Hold your breath between shifts and listen.
Mowing men are singing in crops before the war.
Tony Noon
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