When the harvest comes to town

 



A tension in the air
hot and humid, suffocating,
adding to the diesel smells,
tractors racing in the lane
straws lying where they land
no breeze to clear the road
no time to sweep away;
bales piled high,beyond
the safety limits.
The empty bar says all,
Hobsons Choice fading in the barrel;
not a tractor in the yard
sandwiches and Thermos flasks;
stubble where once
the twenty acre waved yellow
to the morning sun, setting
beyond Tranter's copse
its badger sett and crows
children, now off-school,
watch behind the gate, as
dogs sneak in the hedgerows
rabbits dodging combines,
trailers filled with grain.
few will have a full nights sleep
until all is in and Hobsons flows again.
. . . . . .. . . . . .
But I must to home and soon . .
when darkness falls this no place for me
more dangerous than the motorway
when the harvest comes to town.