Now the seeds of winter spawn in furrows sown on summer’s rise
And the leaves that turn upon the branches do so in disguise
For orange hearts on ochre sleeves the harvesters do shun
And the scythe its blade directed past the autumn digging done

Now spring won’t let you draw your breath with pencil graphite green
To notice how the lines converge in tomorrow’s field unseen
Or who would sow and who would reap and who would own the land
and who would hang in tattered rags and straw the scarecrow stand

“Not me” you cry in dappled tones beneath scattered oak alight
While laying down the hoe to tow the rising moon to light
Then slipping tween the rays of hope that gleam upon your face
The tears of yester-yesteryear to fertile ground do race

To feed those seeds in springtime sown in hope and good intent
And there spring forth with shoots anew to writhe in discontent
To bite and claw and clamber up to stretch for distant sun
and plough by atheist horses drawn through the rows of reason run

to spill the beans on a plate of pure and unadulterated truth
with meat shaved clean from hamburger cows no longer in the tooth
than the children born in the dying scorn of double millennia
who cannot see beyond the synthetic hem of parental asphyxia

and so to rest these rolling stones whose moss morose does feed
on the past and present fabricated filtered filed indeed
in confidential vaults of lead and notes green soaked in greed
then compressed in chambers secret sacred to reinvented seed

October 2007

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