Planting Fields
In those days when we couldn’t touch each other— instead— we dug the earth
the spacer we passed marked— the ideal measure— in black mark— tuber— here
pass the spacer in sunlight or make another—wood with raw black— no touch
but we can pass the spacer— across furrows of soil— a field reclaimed by one horse
clan iron— the valley tinkles the blue nant like a bell
ragged field-edge still sodden with wool-musk—sheep gone hafod— marker
space— them— out— kneel with boots the same side of a turning— here
holy gravity of food heating each of our palms— what do you think of
potatoes— lay it out— eyes— a whole duck egg we found, brought by the jaw of a fox
holy burying— the cow’s gut— horse dung— spacer
enough cache of futures to feed an army— drag a laundry basket
keep replenishing— a worn sack remembers shapes
trowels in our hands— stabbing in the under-magic— the original women here
tatting the bron— not too long ago— they— them land girls— tinkle in the field
the cottage hospitals— where the last ones sang to us— of dowels
away from home— sacks and sacks of seed— making their mark
naughty, call-respond ditties— about how they daren’t touch each other— in the dark
Suzanne Marie Iuppa is a poet, community worker and filmmaker who lives in North Wales. She is Writer-in-Residence for Climate.Cymr