The Rotten Teeth of the Plough

Worrying the earth, tearing at the terre,
New hope for the harvest born of pain
As punitive steel bites the soft crust,
Stripping away the living green,
Fallow no longer.

Now sinking down into increasing brown,
Sharp teeth grown false and rusted.
Grim reaper calls home his own scythe,
The modern image of timeless death.