The poem is very short, but it holds a lot of uncertainty. It opens with an odd image: "trumpets for the corn / not the mist." The speaker seems to want some sound or celebration to belong to the ripe, useful crop, not to the vague, drifting mist. That sets up a contrast between what is productive and what is only atmosphere. The title, "Unproductive," makes us suspect the speaker feels more like the mist than the corn.
Then comes the blunt question, "who am I here," set apart on its own line, which makes it feel like a sudden stop. The speaker seems unsure of their place or worth.
The last image offers a small, hopeful turn. The speaker is "an old ore dug out / from under rubbish." Ore is raw and unfinished, but it has value inside it. The mood is quiet, wondering and a little self-doubting, with a faint hint that something worthwhile may still be uncovered.