In the field of opportunity (It’s tattie time again,}
The pickers scrambled from the bus,
gasping in the crisp October air.
Children ran across the furrowed fields,
kicking up dust and startled pheasants.
The older women built small fires,
soon smoke curled through the hedgerows.
The boss a small, mean, ex-fighter.
who’d fought until his face was flattened,
trampled through the tangled shaws
Measuring out each stent.
Sweat from his pounding head
stained his battered hat.
A heavy tractor dragged the digger
hard and relentless, rumbling and clattering,
laying a carpet of potatoes in front of bent backs
The daily rate a pittance
“A king’s ransom” boasted the boss.
“A damned disgrace” said old Jenny Fintry.
Copyright © J.M Brown 2017
Born in Glencraig Fife at the end of the 2nd World War, After many years of drifting and working, James returned to Scotland. Once retired he began to write things. Some have been published as poems and articles and with the help of Citadel playwrights performed on stage by professionals. Still married with three children and four grandchildren.