The sickle lies in the antique shop
ash-wood handle split and loose
cast aside and with contempt
thousand years it gave us bread,
far more than swords and axes,
swung by women and their children,
helped by men between the wars,
rarely fought in autumn.
The Russians have it on their flag
flying with the hammer......
no guns on the blood red standard.
But here it lies,blunt,leaning on the wall
going for six pound fifty.
Stay awhile and doff your hat
to the labourer who swung this blade
bright and sharp,grey stone in his pocket
blacksmith,fire and quenching water,
taken home each night,wrapped in oily rag,
set beside the kitchen door and heavy boots,
coat behind the door,clip-rug on the floor
children round the table,smiling in the fire light
fresh baked bread and soup,
pray for sun tomorrow.