sheena blackhall (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

There is a cornfield ploughed into my brain
No wind, nor sleety gale wears it away

What fails with time, glass, clocks, health, flowers
This place remains intact.
Its stalks are crowned with golden glistening seeds

I dream of it in moonlight when the sharp stars sing
Their pibrochs, to far, dusky firmaments

I dream of how it swayed around, breast high
Whispering its tales of earth and sun-baked bread