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.