Wheatfield..please read my poem

 

 

Wheatfield.

 

Midsummer:

the blue of the sky stretches

from horizon to horizon,

fading from intense cerulean overhead,

to a gentle haze closest to the plain’s edge.

 

The wheat field gleams

golden in the noon light,

vast as a prairie,

the ears heavy,

bending

under their own productivity.

 

That was then.

 

Now,

in early spring, there is still snow in the north,

the pristine whiteness mired in mud,

and blood,

churned by tanks, craters, artillery,

pits blown apparently randomly,

deep and water-logged,

recalling the almost forgotten horrors

of Ypres and Passchendaele.

 

The woodlands give little cover,

the trees split, twigs scattered.

 

No birds sing.

 

No seeds have been planted.

 

The only yield will be that of death

and destruction…

 

yet still the flag flutters

optimistically,

hopefully,

heroically,

echoing the blue and yellow,

of sky and land:

the colours of peace.

 

 

Published in reach poetry 284 June 2022

Voted 2nd of the month by readers.

 

Done