THE FIELD Poem by Shlomo ibn Gabirol

The storm-clouds lowed above us like bulls.
Autumn was angry, and its face darkened
and put them to chase like wisps of wool,
like a ship's captain blasting its horn.

The heavens went black in a thickening mist,
as the morning stars and their light were absorbed,
then the sun with its wing whisked them across
the earth until they split and it burst.

The wind beat at the sheets of rain,
and the clouds were cut into threads reaching down
into the world below - drenching
ridges, preparing the furrows for sowing.

On the hills, hidden grasses emerged
like secrets a man had long withheld:
all winter the clouds wept until suddenly
life again swept through the trees of the field.