Sandwiches

Cheese sandwiches,
Plain breid,
Crusts cut off, wrapped,
In grease-proof paper.
And a big spade,

Of a hand.
Sitting in the lea of,
A drystane wall surveying,
A hard morning’s work.

The stubble turned,
Under the plough matches,
The hard, white stubble,
Of the old man’s face I think,

As years and generations condense,
To a square yard of sunshine,
And the simple act,
Of sharing a sandwich.

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