Poetry by Clare Best

Bloodsworth field, June

Half a million fists of calabrese
tortured by drought - the crop wasting with heat,
stinking May weed and ragwort

a tractor discs and rolls the yellowed field,
locking down what moisture's left.
Sea birds stoop in search of food - some fall

into the shining blades,
some dip and rise, come back and back
to front their shadows on the hard pressed earth.