Harvest

White birds glide by on a breath of nature

I remember these birds had their place, always

The sun holding its allotted place in the deep blue disc

Challenges nothing for sovereignty It is king

These vital seeds are reborn and die,

but in just one turn

They are forgotten,

in many, held up, shaken, prodded and

dropped to smash onto the rocks of apathy far below

This is not a sad poem but rather that you should realise

your time may be now

But only one season of this rich harvest

is brought forward in perpetuity

Grown in the past to rot and decay in the future

And if understood by its own definition

and acted out there upon

It shall know forever what we will be

Tomorrow you may be gone

Tomorrow I shall watch the grass grow

1986