To the Irish farmer\/poet of Monaghan, Patrick Kavanagh<\/em><\/p>\n Scales of iron furrow into mottled oak, No neighbourly hand or gesture Justin Charron To the Irish farmer\/poet of Monaghan, Patrick Kavanagh Scales of iron furrow into mottled oak, Cracking handles bound in iron clasps, Fallow land, consuming Stoney grey soil unfit for farm, Seeded well by glacial retreats; The only fruit you bore Piled round your perimeter, Dividing mine from theirs. No neighbourly hand or gesture Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":13,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"template-full-width.php","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-99","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/99","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/13"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=99"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/99\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":614,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/99\/revisions\/614"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/13-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=99"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nCracking handles bound in iron clasps,
\nFallow land, consuming
\nStoney grey soil unfit for farm,
\nSeeded well by glacial retreats;
\nThe only fruit you bore
\nPiled round your perimeter,
\nDividing mine from theirs.<\/p>\n
\nWhen mending time came
\nWith biting winter winds
\nThat chilled my bones,
\nAnd cracked my skin
\nLike the brittle arms of the feeble plow.
\nAmber fields give way to bramble thickets,
\nBefore they have a chance to reach the sky,
\nThorns straggle green saplings,
\nAdorning them in Christ-like crowns.
\nWith each season, the land reclaims its beauty,
\nHealing the pastoral scars.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"