Chris Considine
Reprisal
Because they have only just
cautiously come home
haytime is late this year
but today they will finish.
Ribs of the panting tractors
vibrate. Heat rises from them
transparent as flawed glass
to make horizons fluid.
Last week’s meadows
are greening tenderly. Yesterday’s
wounded slope is yellow-buff.
This final field, ankle deep
in cut stalks is silvery, bluish,
an inland sea. The old baler
round and round and round
mutters its endless dactyls.
And now men and boys
are heaving the last bales
happy in spite of sweat
grass-dust and flies.
But the birds have stopped singing
to listen: a noisy truck –
gunfire – shouting – a scream –
and when the engine fades
there is perfect silence
under the empty sky
until the women come running,
already sobbing for breath.
Page(s) 30
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