The black bog pools accept, in increments,
The slow sink of a drifted summer sky.
Testing the dark, my bare feet subsuck into
The bottomless, uncooked earth as above
The women take leave, clinking off with their
Empty bottles of milky, souring tea.
Saving the turf is the only noise then,
A heatless half light hurrying the work,
Each man grafting each stroke flush to the air
In a sweat of sound rhythming out to
Jabs and heaves of single and triplicate
Slices, fork into stack, fork into stack,
Sods shelling the floor of the wooden trailer
Like ancient bombs dropped from nowhere.