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Fields Of Gold


Fields Of Gold

Walking through fields of barley,
Heads bowing as we part the way.
Lightly brushing tender delicate stems,
With whiskers like that of cats.

See how the poppies stand,
Green jackets, pillar box red.
Black eyed sentries,
On duty it might be said.

Phesants startled by our presence,
Squawk wildly, take flight.
Underfoot mice aimlessly,
Scurry and dart about.

The ground now hardened,
Scorched by the relentless sun.
Deep cleaths formed from earlier rains,
Still remain, like cruel scars.

A farmer stands, scythe in hand,
With a shotgun loaded by his side.
Hares bolt with fear in their eyes,
Alongside rabbits; run for your lives.

As fields of gold call out to be cut.

Breda Ware

1 Comment

  1. Jaroslav Suchý

    I like the way you make this “ordinary” beauty absolutely extraordinary…

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