toiled at one with Mother Earth
using bare hands, tools and tractor in the rank fields
in full view of his burly neighbour.
They exchanged erotic grunts across the air,
thick with the manure-whiff scent of work
,
recalling the Bisto-kid giddiness of youth
and igniting agri-passion in their glistening haunches
They imagined the slop-slap of the love-act
but resisted a daylight rendezvous behind the stacks,
contented to tease the senses with farm-play
until darkness gave them cover for their tryst.
Fate’s hairy hand awaited careless moments,
clandestine in the hay-heap, an impending farce
as one fell back intense in expectation.
a fatal pitch-fork stabbed him up the arse.
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