Of the Farmer's Land
Dusk, the gentle side of sunshine,
settled soft upon the folded sails.
The fresh stars were twinkling
on the smooth river surface.
And the gentle sound of herons
passing, stepping silent in the reeds,
looking out across the sparkling
of light on the sea...
...and the clink of metal striking
wooden beams, creating feelings
of past and present days, old ways
of skipjack and dredge and rakes.
Ducks are swimming, necking,
dipping bills and tails and feathers
moving, rustling in a pleasant breeze.
The wind is alive here.
Of tomorrow, things will, frankly,
remain the same. The sun will rise
and glow and set on the landscape,
the richest fields of wheat, blowing soft
and resting gentle against
the river and the sea. A distant dog
will bark at the return of master,
a man of river and the land, a farmer.
And children's laughter, their shadow
against the fertile land, their tiny hand
enclosed in rough and calloused palm,
time now to go home.
And walking along, bare feet stepping
on an oyster shell road, grasses tender
on the roadside spread their seeds
and see them to the sea.
And the herons graze on minnow,
thoughtfully. They ignore the passing
of dogwood petals and tuft of reeds.
Time ceases. Time breathes.
Copyright © Mollie Horney | Year Posted 2016
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