November, month of charcoal cloud
slung low to the earth;
labourers hunched double,
grubbing for the bright potatoes
that scuttle, like mice, back into the sodden soil.
Scrabbling fingers chase each fugitive light
with the desperation of the starving.
I rest a moment on the spade,
my fingers on the shaft
now rough with working the same soil;
my fingers with their DNA inside them.