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The Hazlenut

We leant shoulder to shoulder over the gate
and watched the tractor with its
list, and waist twisted driver,
churning and turning the field
from green to brown.
Making furrows and burrows for seed,
not trenches and pits for soldier boys.

We walked home down the hill.
The teatime sun setting chill.
We held hands hard
in the pocket of your old brown coat.
We fed the dogs, and lit the fire.
We ate our last supper.
We tried, Oh! how we tried
not to cry.

Today I watched the wind part the grain
like fingers through the hair.
I wept and sobbed, and swore at the Gods
I bellowed and screamed at my grief.
And the baby inside me, it turned and churned,

Lesley Phillips