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 hands, around the
shaft,
rough with working that
same soil;
fingers with the same DNA
inside them.
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