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]