Grey wind races across the field,
Chasing lines carved deep in damp soil,
Churned and hacked by plough and harrow.
Year on year, turning the surface, Scraping and shaping,
Scribing purpose on the land.
Rain follows wind,
Drawn and driven,
Blown over ridges,
Filling in ditches,
Soaking the dirt.
Standing alone in the face of the weather,
An old man of the earth.
Battered and scarred,
Twisted and ripped.
Once he stood with others,
Young and wild,
Bright and beautiful.
They raced for the air,
Reached for the light,
Laughed as they spun and they stretched.
Their finger tips touched,
Brushed and caressed,
Then bound together.
But they are now gone,
No longer as one,
He stands alone.
He remembers the years,
He feels where they were,
He misses their shade,
He is not proud that he has survived,
He does not relish the solitude,
Or wear it pinned to his trunk.
The old man remembers,
As winter beats his flesh,
And summer bleaches his skin.
He remembers.
He takes a deep breath,
Drawing in the scent of his place,
Inhaling its songs and its stories.
And he knows they are here,
Down in the ground he can feel them,
He knew all along they were there.
Standing alone, just like him,
Feeling alone, just like him,
Never alone, just like him.
PICTURA POESIS 