Corn Storm Poem by C Richard Miles

Summer raindrops splish-splash in headlong dash
On the yet-green, wet-green meadow grass
Not yet weathered into harvest-yellow carpet
Not yet battered brown, nor flattened down hard yet.

Straw still is unpaled by rough hail or gruff gale, instead
Unbaled by combine, unlike in times long dead
Where skilful sickle and sharp scythes and forks
Rived in haste through waist-tall hay stalks.

But soon machines will make fields yield proper
And grain rain will spatter in the hopper
Gathering fresh threshed wheat from the ear
And spew-spread sifted chaff to the air

And bundled straw-stooks, tied with twine,
Stripped of all green by man not rain.
Will line dead meadow with golden bales
That shine like sunbeams as evening fails.