Bristled waving heads folded and cut,
chaff flung in a dusty trail,
a man in a hat over the wheel;
face painted in dust and sweat;
summer’s strain, summer’s grain –
turning in ever-smaller circles –
tea in an enamel billy, red seeded
jam spilling off scones.
A boy in shorts running, open hands
thudding over stalks, dreaming
when he can wear a green felt hat
with a red feather in its band,
tip it down as the hot wind rolls off the hills,
little river of sweat cutting a trail.
A crop rocking in its bed.
[A re-written version of an older poem posted here]