Scattered Seeds

The horses graze by the big Oak,
The plough is in the barn.
The bridles and collars
no longer gleam;
they wither,
crusted.

The blade no longer cuts the furrow
Though the land lies succulent
The meadows sighing in
the summer breeze;
take me,
ripened.

In Flanders fields the strong hands lie
as still and cold as winter.
No more the reins will
wrap broad back,
taking the
strain.

That brow once veiled by wanton curl
While leaking sweats of labour,
lays covered, in another’s
field by mud,
life blood
oozing.

And so the new grass will be sparse,
not lush, for lean the growth;
when seeds are strewn
so heedlessly, for
careless winds
blowing.