Mark Parry

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Best Poem of Mark Parry

God Speed The Plough

The farmer ploughed the field early that year:
Long before the frosts of late autumn
Left diamonds of white sheen
On the valleys and hills of crisp soil.

Birds came in the plough’s wake –
Sparrow, crow, rook and raven;
A night-sentry owl perched
On a nearby tree,
Satellite dish eyes
Scanning the furrows,
Ready to swoop on any mammal
Confused by the plough’s toil.

Leaves fell in the sharp winds
Of a remembrance-filled November:
Saints, souls and soldiers
Lost in memory and prayer,
Now celebrated in rites of silence:
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