Thursday, October 9, 2014

The Field

Withered stalks, golden and brittle
Rattle restlessly in the autumn breeze
Like skittering beetles or mice in the walls
Soft spectral voices on incessant breaths
Whisper to the recesses of my conceit
We’re here

What hides from the light in the deepest of rows?
What watches at night from the edge?
What waits for me, waits for me, to come see for myself?
To come be a part of the field

I’ll know soon enough for the harvest approaches
The ears hang low in their submission to time
And what waits in the rows doesn’t vex me as much
As it did when the sun rode high

So I’ll listen to the rattles, the beetles and mice
Pay heed to the voices on whispering winds
And fear not the edge where the darkness invites me
To come be a part of the field


Ross Brecke said...

That is excellent! Would make a great song...low slow burner Zeppelin style.

Hope said...

Beautiful. I agree on the song. Would be excellent.

Mike Sepelak said...

An interesting observation, Ross. And, like Hope, I think it might just work. THANKS!