Sunday, January 24, 2016

Famine Memory

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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