STORM LIGHT

We know the present as a perpetual harvest
Of seeds ripened from the past. Ours is now
The reaping and the threshing of corn grown
By hands that can no longer hold the plough.

In the grey light of a gathering storm
We fell time-tall stalks and laden heads,
Fearing the burnt earth after the necessary fire,
Working at time’s edge, harvesting the dead.

And we work to sow the seeds of winter corn,
Afraid that the brown wind will swoop at last
Down from the hooded copse, swirling ashes
Across the burnt land, making ours a barren past.