The Harrow

The harrow pulls its iron fangs,
exposing earth’s jagged spine—
each pull a song of shadowed sod,
each turn a hooved refrain.

This is how the land earns its stripes:
steel and sweat, harness and grit,
spilled by the harrow’s sprawl, straight
as the road to the lough.

Ulster’s wind gnaws at my furrowed brow.
The harrow nods in wait,
a beast too patient for taming.
It does not ask, only forgives,
leaving the soil bleeding flesh,
a seedless wound.