for Hughie O'Donoghue
In an age of bare hands
and cast iron,
the clamp-on meat-mincer,
the double-flywheeled water-pump,
it dug its heels in among wooden tubs
and troughs of slops,
hotter than body heat
in summertime, cold in winter
as winter's body armour,
a barrel-chested breast-plate
standing guard
on four braced greaves.
'This is the way that God sees life,'
it said, 'from seedling-braird to snedder,'
as the handle turned
and turnip-heads were let fall and fed
to the juiced-up inner blades,
'This is the turnip-cycle,'
as it dropped its raw sliced mess,
bucketful by glistering bucketful.
