Red wash of light
Scratched by parched stubble
An ancient barn and rusty tractor sit,
Silent watchmen as one more sunset
Marks time on this eternal field.
How many have they counted?
How many more will they see?
If they could speak, would they tell of
the farmer who worked in the barn, whistling absently
the soft, dusty trouser legs of the tractor’s driver
the crops and animals that were their purpose –
Or would they simply let the silence grow
Like a strange, fallow crop
That you might scythe it down with your impatience?
Copyright ©2015 C. Mitchell