The Arching Scythe Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The farmer said, 'It is ripe for cutting'
The stem said it was tired and dying
With the ear of the corn I listened
The earth for its seed was sighing

In pre-born blackness I swam like a fish in the sea
I swayed like an ark
A speck of creation. A magnet, gathering power
Till fallen free of the Jonah-tunnel
I twist and turn in a cold uncharted ocean
With Death, the shark
And beyond, the unfathomed Void
Round as a womb, the Dark