The Fordson has furrowed its last,
left lame on a tireless wheel,
and trailing gulls chase after
a younger generation
— eager hands scavenging
what might be saved;
Where the thistle claims
its obscure victory
in this corner the nettle stings,
and the bramble ploughs its way
over the bones of the beast.
To these abandoned years
a harrow adds some
well hidden neglect,
dug into soil,
it is powerless to turn.
Old tractors never die
just — rust to dust — become
part of the fields they ploughed.
