Charity shop harvest.

Simply a face in a photograph,
Someone whose name I don’t know.
A woman harvesting in a faraway field
Too many years ago.

You seem so serious, but there’s a glint in your eye.
Was your apron really so white?
Or are you dressed up for a harvest treat,
Your very first photograph.

There’s the calmness of years in the lines of your face
As you challenge the camera’s eye.
For little has changed with the passing years,
And nobody wonders why.

Bundles of wheat, so carefully placed,
Laced together with gentle skill.
They don’t care for the land now in the way that you did,
And nobody ever will.

An illusion of poise in the heat of the sun,
Is all that is left of your day.
The last of a life in the palm of my hand,
And somebody threw it away.


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