There is a thread of picking in the field,
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a sage trace is left in the air from
the brushing of skirt and trouser,
the cloth becomes field for ten
Minions have no words for others
as the overseers see nothing
but lined paper with insects,
no jotting of thoughts just
The pinstripe of nature
tailored to the lords demands,
no coloured birth suit other than the
legal pad yellow earns attention
on the field.
Black, blue and red stalks match
perfectly the green and white,
it was the fashion in those days
with any well run bauble of
The page has now been shaken
with the insects abroad
setting colony within colony,
still white lined paper and
pinstripe suit, but no tailored demands.
Ask not what you can do to poetry, but what poetry can do to you.