The hum, I hear from a distant quiet, a solitary stir.
The depths are cracking, tremendous breaks, in my ears.
A gentle brush, from the barley and wheat, rippling.
A hollow explosion, a collapsing of things, engulfing.
It tickles at your fingers, an excited, soft touch.
The chasms are opening, dragging out like the pre-tsunami.
The still sun, working its fingers over branches and blades,
Their claws dug in years ago, greedy and desperate,
while a wind from the west, takes the sparrows high.
writhing in the dirt, grey and metallic, a lobotomy
July has grabbed me and the fields, filling us up, buttercups,
for our earth. The yields are falling, the hedgerows too.
daisies, all blooms. The grass is hushed, a silent summer land.
Swallowing us up now, nothing is left, just the piercing, deafening hole.