Moved towards them,
God like, the sower
Stepping from the sun.
His queer frame
Stranger than usual,
A knotted posture
As if twisted from wheat.
His hands buried deep
In his working jacket,
Where the breast
Clotted with blood.
His expression stayed curious,
One ear still to the wind,
Like a dog ready for flight,
A walking open wound.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Harding lives in Northampton UK where, when not working, he writes poetry and draws. Tom has been published in various places including Parameter Magazine, Identity Theory, Unlikely Stories and Nthposition. He also maintains a website of his own work at tomarianne.net.
Bay Laurel / Volume 3, Issue 1 / Spring 2014