535 - Harvest

I see with eyes of poppy - I feel
with the sea of wheat - harvest is close.
I am the draught that turns on its heel.
the rye is alert and not comatose -

gold in the sun while corn is still green.
you will find me and the rye awake
where it is not my place - to intervene.
the harvester reaps with grain in its take -

the still-sleeping bulb - the watching bloom.
I see with life and see with death alike.
the red eye and black pupil have room
for both - headache and the lightning strike.

I have seen the crow that will glean the field.
already I am seed - dormant and sealed.

Woodford Halse
15 July 2021