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Kenneth Slessor - The Knife
Work rating: Low

THE plough that marks on Harley`s field 
 In flying earth its print 
 Throws up, like death itself concealed, 
 A fang of rosy flint, 
 A flake of stone, by fingers hewed 
 Whose buried bones are gone, 
 All gone, with fingers, hunters, food, 
 But still the knife lives on. 
 And well I know, when bones are nought, 
 The blade of stone survives— 
 I, too, from clods of aching thought, 
 Have turned up sharper knives.
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