farm kid

I wake before the cock crows
the palest promise of dawn,
spread the feed in gentle throws,
out ‘cross the chickens’ lawn.
And now to the cabbage rows,
loathsome, lousy with thistle.
in everything a bramble grows –
for fat you must have gristle –
and taking up my draw-hoe,
smooth-grained from the handling
my thoughts return to trails I know,
the brambles in my ambling.

Growth Without Gain

There are seeds which grow in lightless places,
and bear no fruit, and leave no traces
between the roots of grander things
fed by fetid, hidden springs.

Tend this weed with all due might,
although its hooks will wrap and bite,
and as it ages, the only prize
is how you crumble as it dies.