Abandoned Agricultural Machinery of the Ross
Hay rakes, looking rickety, like home-made chariots
crossed with bike racks. Rusty balers, like
scuppered rattleships in the Great Reef of Bracken.
Thistle reapers, lost in the old enemy's encircling
embrace, like colonial administrators who
missed the memo. A whole can clan of slurry tanks.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Seth Crook would be
pleased to hear them.