I know that tractor. I have driven a blue version
many times in the Avon Valley. Not as hilly as here,
but in the wet things still got boggy, and hard work
was a catchcry. Built the same year I was built,
orange required less gestation time. I was birthed
early in sixty-three, probably around the same time
blue arrived at Fremantle Harbour.
Orange belongs to the landlady’s father,
eighty-two and insisting “she” will see
him out. The life they’ve shared together,
not mutually exclusive, but room
in the family unit. Almost a sisterly
affection, but not quite. It might be Mother,
but that place is filled eternally,
a blessing of the fields.
Machine grows into personality
but it’s no case of a dog and its master.
Out into the fields of Corthna
orange sucks in the Atlantic fogs:
factory and farm, longevity,
and maybe if the lid on the exhaust
breaks off, I can suggest a jam tin
wired over to keep rain out,
let the exhaust free into the idyll.