The tractor is ill to start, a great heaving and jerking, The gear lever jars through palm and bone, But I saw in a film the Russian women working On the land they had made their own, And so, and so, Said the farm woman: And I bruise easy. Never tell the men, they will only laugh and say What use would a woman be! But I read the war news through, every day; It means my honour to me, Making the crops to grow. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy.

Naomi Mitchison The Farm Woman: 1942 Why the blue bruises high up on your thigh, On your right breast and both knees? Did you get them in the hay in a sweet smother of cries, Did he tease you and at last please, With all he had to show? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. Why the scratched hand, was it too sharp a grip, Buckle or badge or maybe nail, From one coming quick from camp or ship, Kissing as hard as hail That pits deep the soft snow? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. There was nothing, my sorrow, nothing that need be hidden, But the heavy dung fork slipped in my hand, I fell against the half-filled cart at the midden; We were going out to the land. Nobody had to know. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: For I bruise easy.