The Plough Field

And now I smell the ancient earth
Of fields which have been freshly ploughed.
The sun shines down for all it’s worth,
And, in the sky, there’s not a cloud.

All night, it rained to fill each ditch
And wet the land at longest last.
Perhaps that’s why my nostrils twitch
And scent the soil as I walk past.

And then I find I’m standing still
And watching swallows swooping low,
As if they have to eat their fill
Before it’s time for them to go.

And, in the end, I turn for home
And leave behind the fragrant loam.

Photo by Benjamin Jameson on Unsplash

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