The Harvest (Lent Poems 20 and 21)

The Barren Fields
And in the autumn of the afternoon,
He waits, he waits,
And watches for
The cattle yet to grace the hills,
The birds not seen yet in the skies,
The fig-tree failing yet to bud…
In distant skies are storks who know
The seasons they must follow, who
Obey the times appointed in their lives,
And doves, swifts, thrushes who all know
To move and sway with seasons’ changes,
Yet now the seasons change and halt
All of their own petulant accord.
The ground declares it should be soft,
The plants complain they are not growing,
Land which will not drink of rain decries
Its own sad, barren state…
In the fields he waits while all
Around him are the stumps of growth
Aborted and the fallow fields
Of careless inattention and
The hard, infertile land of dull
Hearts and deaf, enclosed ears.
Lift Your Eyes
Look: the harvest…
It looms, in minute kernels
Locked away in desert lands,
In hints of teardrops somewhere in clouds
Still too shy to show themselves…
Listen: the people…
The people cry:
The harvest is gone and still
We’re not saved.
The summer is passed.
Where are we now?
Somewhere you are,
In limbo’s dull season,
In valleys of bones and slaughter where
One day will the bridegroom come
Amid the songs of the joyful who
Await the feast that will then burst
From barren grounds and desert lands
And fountains which will break forth from
Clouds too shy now to show themselves.
There will then be feasting.
There will then be rain.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s