The field is ploughed,heavy clay,beaten and churned.
Stones and splinters of root squandered over every inch.
Not so long ago this field danced in a multitude of yellow
of creamy white ,of green stems standing proud,
a glorious blanket of shining hope,
swaying in the morning's misty breeze..
Now just dull brown earth,
the type that sticks in the cracks of the soles,
that hums when the rainfall is high,
this is all that fills this field now,
yet on the far edge,like the last man standing,
three green stems,three heads of summer gold,
stand hopefull within the morning breath.