Marginalia
At the edge
Of field and footpath
Stray strands of life
Grow furtive, ears listening
To the sound of harvest.
Seeds scattered perhaps by starlings,
Renegade grains renouncing ordered rows,
Thriving in cracks and bootprints
Beyond the boundaries.
They see their sisters die,
And know what happens next;
Only the steady grinding of the mills.
Hidden by the hedge, stretching
Silently to reach the sun,
Hoping never to be known;
Theirs is a strange freedom,
Yet they outlast
The season's end.
“Truth is the harvest scythe”
– attributed to the Book of the Dead.