Escape to the country

Just as a sheaf’s wheat to the sickle yields,
Just as a beef-bull for the butcher bleeds,
Now let us build a home among these fields.

Homo sapiens’ destiny was sealed
By gatherers in sowing those first seeds.
Just as a sheaf’s wheat to the sickle yields,

Landscars, lost memorials, are revealed.
As plants that plant themselves are wily weeds,
Now let us build a home among these fields.

We shall protect our plot with these sure shields
We render as unwritten rights and deeds:
Just as a sheaf’s wheat to the sickle yields;

Just as a scab’s a healing wound congealed;
Just as the dead haunt asphodelus meads;
Now let us build a home among these fields

Until the final chapel bells have pealed,
Until the old red giant wakes and feeds.
Just as a sheaf’s wheat to the sickle yields,
Now let us build a home among these fields.

Appears in:
Rhymes for all times [2015]