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Stubble
By David Osgerby
The harvest home, only stubble now remains.
The wheat is in, and farmers give thanks for clement weather.
The last harvester has inched its way
Down narrow country lanes,
As the landscape holds its breath,
And waits for tractors towing
Serried ranks of patient seagulls.
Soon, soon, this will come.
But for now, the earth is free of clutter,
And I can see the contours of the land.
The face of nature has been shaved,
And only stubble now remains.
The harvest home, only stubble now remains.
The wheat is in, and farmers give thanks for clement weather.
The last harvester has inched its way
Down narrow country lanes,
As the landscape holds its breath,
And waits for tractors towing
Serried ranks of patient seagulls.
Soon, soon, this will come.
But for now, the earth is free of clutter,
And I can see the contours of the land.
The face of nature has been shaved,
And only stubble now remains.
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Stubble
Stubble
