Time lays dry in the fields
as a long Summer gasps
in choking clouds
of windswept polen.
The tall grasses
bow and wave goodbye
to this years seeds
as they float, then land
on the empty, arid spaces
of a new land.
Like unborn children
they are nourished
in natures womb.
The cord; their roots,
that feed and suck
on the sustinance;
bequithed by
dead ancectors, who
died on the crosses
of last years harvest.
Ian Bowen
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nature-s-repetition/
