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THE TURNIP-SNEDDER
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.