Along The Headlands

In some places the growth regulator has worked.

The barley perches waist height,

perfect cover for the pigeons that dive-bomb

grey feathers all a flutter,

deaf to the crow banger’s crack, crack, crack

as they land in the elsewhere places

of stems grown too tall not to loose their balance.

In the shadow of the sheds there’s warmth yet,

the sun is sunk but not quite set

and the sky has turned to rust beyond the track

where the tractors wobble outwards

for one last relay before dusk can claim day.


I’ve mixed two prompts tonight. DVerse Poets Pub’s challenge to write a poem about landscape while using verbs in an unusual way (I’m hoping I managed that) and today’s Daily prompt: Traditional. So here you have traditional Shropshire scenery with a twist.

The Trials Of Harvest

It’s clunking
and clanking,
spluttering and

Sheered bolt,
splintered support,
bits flying
crash, crunch, thump-

Fucking hell
and shit.

Two days in the field,
a half finished field
where grain heads still bob,
trailers still empty.

Two days of welding,
twisting, fixing,
only for a final diagnostic.


No amount of gutting,
of open heart surgery
is going to fix this.

give me god dam options!

Fuck it all and splash the cash?
How much for a new one,
and by new I mean second hand,
or well maintained third
even fourth if it’s lasted well.

Call in the family.
Twenty acres down before heart failure
but plenty more still to go.
Call in the family
and pray.

Pray for no rain.
Pray for no break downs.
Pray to finish before September.
Don’t care if you have faith
just get on and pray.