In The Field Of Green

In the field of green,
like soft hair, waves.
I gaze west to the farm.
Red roof, clay tiles
with new wet sheen.
Birds cry, plants form
and insects teem.

East is black,
as the floor falls away
to pit, glass blades.
Waste.
Cracked hell.
The sky a sick grey
rain cloud paste.

The field of green.
The farm cries death.
Gold seen behind
is lost in breadth.
Soft hairs, like grass
caress these feet.
My hands are crows.
My flesh is wheat.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.