Tractors weave across the golden fields,
while ochre eyes watch from aloft;
the spinning scythes mow down months of growth
and leave bereft the now shorn croft.

Mares and foals cry out in the season
of severance, tutoring pain
among those who’ve yet to learn just how
fruitless it is to fret the chain.

Hoof on field I hear beyond the gate,
but you cannot be riding there.
By instinct, I turn my head to look
wildly embracing that cold snare.

A chill wind shifts in the darkened hearth
lifting the ash to stray beyond
the cracks into which it drifted once,
by but a mere whisper uncalmed.

A dog in the night begins to yelp
and howl, impotent, at the moon,
while I recline and trace the rafter
beams, knowing day is coming soon.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s