David E Anson muddypoetry
In March, when the ground begins to slacken,
earth turning red from deepest black, crumbling
in perfect waves across the ridge to the plough’s gritted teeth;
the farmer, it is said, will un-breech himself,
gently place a dimpled buttock on the creases of the soil
to feel, perhaps coyly, for a breath of early warmth.
Then, from dimly lit cellars and zinc roofed sheds,
he collects the chitting potatoes: coarse eggs with stalky eyes,
to lay them lovingly in neat drills, putting shy secrets to bed.
the potato farmer
david e anson
muddypoetry
Husband, father, teacher; rural poet. Brought up close to the Shropshire Hills with a passion for poetry and prose, I remember a childhood tramping over fields, poking around badger sets and grubbing in muddy riverbanks. Now, living in the village that Edward Thomas once called home, under the mist and swirls of the Ashford Hangers, I write to capture something of the life we try to lead.
