Rosemarie at dVerse has invited us to write a poem using the word wheat, or any of its derivatives. dVerse Poets – Poetics – Wheat
Photo: wa.gov.au Combine harvester working a wheat paddock in Western Australia.
“In the very end of harvest, scarcity and want shall shun you; Cere’s blessing so is on you.” Ceres – ‘The Tempest’ Act 1V Scene 1 – William Shakespeare
“The wind whispered secrets in its own incomprehensible way.” Tracy Rees
All In A Moment
I noticed the way
the wind whipped across the paddock,
barley dancing playfully,
swaying this way and that,
at once catching the light,
now becoming shadows,
swirling, bowing, rising
to the applause of the stringybark
and squeaked approval of mudlarks,
all in a moment,
as if just for me.
“Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.” Thomas Fuller
Never Forgotten
That one moment where you create time
when there isn’t time and you dare to
venture to the cupboard,
to the draw full of
silvered memories,
the symbols of a life in a
house of histories,
restored to mind and yet,
never forgotten,
rubber seals and old matches,
that old separator spanner,
a marble, a pen, a tack,
candles for birthdays,
the rest are nameless now,
these bits and pieces of a
resurrection.
Photo: from hyperactivz.com and the story “Forty Years Ago This Man Planted A
Tree That Created Amazing Opportunities For His Island” by Lauren Fazackarly – The Story of Jadav Payeng who began planting trees at sixteen and is still going.
Please note: this is only one story, there are several stories from all over the world of people doing similar feats to greater or lesser extent.
“Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in.” Greek Proverb
Every Time
He settled in the dust of his soul,
the sun beating down and
mocking his every effort
drawing his moisture to his brow,
and yet every day he rose and
without fail, made his way
to his field of dreams
that barren canvas of life’s struggles,
of course, without knowing,
passers-by smiled their condescension,
to them he was an eccentric farmer,
while in his own mind he was an
investment banker, and adventurer, a rebel,
and every time he planted a tree he knew
he was painting a masterpiece
whose abstract nature only he could explain.
“Men are not so much the keepers of herds as herds are the keepers of men.” Henry David Thoreau
The old Farm Gate
I leaned on the old gate as I was wont to do,
and it seemed a good thing,
the gate offered no objection
rather, a welcome to reflect as I
leaned and looked out at all that was before me,
in the dry of the day the rust
like barnacles clung to the wizened steel,
but some flaked and powdered
and I felt its roughness
a reminder of the many winters it has endured
since it was hung in less complicated times
when boundaries were respected and a
gate was merely a choice of
coming or going, to be in or out,
this gate might not make another hundred
but for now it has more stories to tell.
