The Harrow-Pin

We’d be told, “If you don’t behave There’ll be nothing in your Christmas stocking for you But an old kale stalk.” And we would believe him.

But if kale meant admonition, a harrow-pin Was correction’s veriest unit. Head-banged spike, forged fang, a true dead ringer

Out of a harder time, it was a stake He’d drive through aspiration and pretence For our instruction.

Let there once be any talk of decoration, A shelf for knick-knacks, a picture-hook or -rail, And the retort was instant: “Drive a harrow-pin.”

Brute-forced, rusted, haphazardly set pins From harrows wrecked by horse-power over stones Lodged in the stable wall and on them hung

Horses’ collars lined with sweat-veined ticking, Old cobwebbed reins and hames and eye-patched winkers, The tackle of the mighty, simple dead.

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