The sower in my eye

Driving three fettled
metal horses, red
on the acres
of our family estate.
Painting
faded narrow stripes
across a shrinking sward of green.

Wind whipping frantic dust off mountain peat,
rose flower heads
in a frenzy of debate.

The testosterone rush
of man’s work diminishing
in chequered patterns
at my feet.

A shadow fleet,
a ghost across the bright,
A trick of flickering blades
in harsh storm light.

Stamped strong
a slender silhouette,
a silver sliver through a lake.
A tear on a weather beaten cheek,

the action of dust
scratching blood
from an irritated iris.

A virus or contagion
in molten reflection
that flashed
in strobes of black and white.

I winked him from my leaking sight.

A trick of fluid and fibre
a mirage of gusty weather,
an echo of eastern wind
as light as fern or feather.

I saw him in a loop
of blinked repeated instants,

A larger, narrower man
than me,
He wore an apron
over a serge dressed shoulder
and burnished leather at his knees.

He walked the sward in spring sunlight
boots levelled busted sod and
tilth.
From his apron scattered to the wind,
the seeds of winter wheat

-Dave Kavanagh

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