Potatoes, that's what I'm after
and that's what I find
with my fork, at the first turning
seven, red ones, all sizes.
Last night's hard frost above
was just a buzz to them.

Why are the crows suddenly calling
back down the hill?
Is the spud some god
to them? They can have
these green tomatoes instead,
frozen clear through but
convincing from a distance; rare
globes of jade.

Let the crows get down
on their stringy knees to these
while I help the seven spuds
make good their escape

into hot water.