This field has been tilled for years, until it’s almost barren.
But spring optimism and commitment to his craft rouse the farmer from his bed.
Last year’s stubble is mixed with hopeful earth. The taste of it hangs in the air.
And, as thoughts take hold a familiar, sprouting tickle at my feet.
‘Look up’ I shout, but he does not.
‘Come see me in darkness’ I yell, but he will not.
At the field’s edge, the mocking laugh and eye of a ravening crow.
The farmer’s rough hands are empty.
The night sky full of the words he’s sown.