The Fleeing Of The Corncrakes

Editor back-issues, poetry

You swing the scythe in washed out flaxen fieldsYou may hear the blade against the dried out stalk It is a sweet sound if the cutting edge is thin You will listen for that faultless cut, it is a veiled thing It will hide in the murmur of starlings and six-row barleyYou will swing and scare the murderous crowsIn repetitions…

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