Field
1920
The sky is ash.
The trees are white,
and burnt coal-black
the stubble stripes.
The Sunset's wound
is bleeding dry,
and ridges crease
bleak paper heights.
The roadside dust
in gullies hides.
The springs raise silt;
the coves subside.
In reddish grey
the sheep-shear chimes,
and motherlike, the waterwheel
has rounded off its rosary.
The sky is ash.
The trees are white.
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