the great hunger- patrick kavanagh

clay

Clay is the world and Clay is the flesh where the potato gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move

here

here Crows Gabble over worms and frogs and the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily

till

Till the last soul Passively like a bag of wet clay

and the

And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar flameless

the drills

The drills slipped by and the days slipped by and he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter

and thought

And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland

his dream

his dream changes again like the cloud swung wind and he is not to sure now if his mother was right when she praised the man who made a field his bride

he could

he could not walk that easy road to his destiny

o the grip

o the grip of irregular fields! no man escapes