The potato eaters -
grim, weathered souls
wrenching a meal
from sandy waste.
The dark toil lined ridges
carried from their fields
to each human face,
dim, pale light
as shadowy as
lives eked out upon this stoney rash of soil.
Brows, a murky legend
of overwork -
deflected hope,
seasons up in the smoke
of a potato boil.
53
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