Standing in the corner of a field,
those who have not harvest-laboured
celebrate the end of necessary work.
There shall be other festivities.
There shall be bread all year.
But these are islands in a drowning.
The roads have been half submerged
in mental and temporal putrefaction.
The past passes our understanding,
bits and pieces which might buoy us,
if gathered and banged together somehow;
visible, and yet quite out of reach
on a current progressing otherwise.
"I 'ave'n", one yells out. Untrue.
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