Wheat Field
There where the sun is on the field
I walk aside its wheaten yield,
pathway strewn with golden ceding
of some growth beholden, deeding
violent gales to cast to earth
too soon to consummate rebirth,
some sterile grains of bread of life
beneath my feet a sacrifice.
Small death among the congregate
that feeds to us the common fate.
Copyright © Rick Howarth | Year Posted 2017
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