Field

Nothing much happens here

since the tractor made slow work

of the winter wheat. Bare mounds

hold crows in their furrows,

black sparks on brown.

Where the ridge meets grass,

nettle pricks skin as we stick

to the path, a thin line pocked

by boot and paw. Nothing much –

the odd flint the plough’s thrown up,

and once, a buckle worn

by a man who walked this way

a thousand years back, twisted

to a question mark as the ground

loosened its grip, set it free.

Tamar Yoseloff