Land’s Lament

Scoop the soil in cupped hand

and watch it fall grainy grey;

bend on one knee so that the

corded pants are tight at the knee,

then lean in and down, to

smell the soil’s goodness;

close your eyes to heighten

the joy of its sweetness.

Sow the seed, feel the dust rise

and see it settle in puffs.

This is the way, as the sun

eases up then falls to ground,

as crops wave to the light,

and spoil in the fuggy wet,

turn to dust yellow in the dry:

failure and success:

the way of the land.

Hold fast, they say, yield

with the incessant wind;

wait for the season – at last

when the grain heads swell

to reach up and up, a

a golden benevolent arm

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