Orange 1962 Massey Ferguson Tractor, Corthna, Ireland, 2013

John Kinsella

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.

Read another poem by John Kinsella by downloading the free Amazon digest version of The Kenyon Review here.

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