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Field Communications
Harrowed I riddle the earth, seek nuggets
of gold, grains of truth, without answers;
sow, see green fingers rip up through the soil,
stalks stiffen, thickening wheat-heads, massed
seeds yellowing, wind-whipped all swaying
as one. From the far field in waves, a tide
flows to the near shore-hedge, turns,
recedes in ripples and again, all the while
whispering under the sun until the day
when swollen one seed splits its shell.
Cracks awake neighbours, every ear
awaiting the call popping one by one,
by the hundred thousand, chattering
across a golden ocean, each grain
a truth, answering my question.
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