Farming Today
Under Glynde’s grey turbine
I know I am irrelevant
It is as if my chest’s creaks
are now unsure ship timbers
set grinding by lifts and turns
of blown low pressures
Her blades swoon over us
in that signature revolution
She asks of me a greater effort
to stand for any time in her shadow
Can you find a name for her grab
and snaffle of another westerly?
Words hurt you – they are your
turned blades in your turned head
And this act of standing upright –
above Gote Farm – is my anchoring
on these Downs of compromises
made between giving and taking