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STRAW BALES
"No need to re-invent the wheel"
you hear people say.
But some clever farmer did
and now huge machines romp,
bellowing, over acres of ripe corn
dropping behind them
rounds of straw waste like golden faeces; or
new minted coins, fat sovereigns.
Eye catching,
each bright disc so tightly packed,
the stray wisps caught, netted,
forced into the circle.
For convenience, of course;
and profit.
Food for thought
they pose there, alien, gleaming,
strategically placed on the shaved field:
artefacts from Brobdingnag lined up for a game,
weighty, pivoting, ready to roll
A finger push will do it.
I've tried.
Peter Stileman works for the Red Cross. He is secretary of the Toddington Poetry Society, has poems published in various magazines, and is on the editorial board of the poetry/short story magazine 'The Interpreter's House'.
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