The Harvest Poem by Sally A Mortemore

beyond the edge of summer an un-furrowed field sits inside of moonlight. waiting. for worn out feet to come and fill her earth with shame.

does she remember?
does she recognise just how they stain her soil with wounds?
she knows they mourn she's seen their faces
has heard the cries let loose from shattered piles they leave behind.

they know she sees and steels each moment 
but does she understand the sadness which corrupts their hearts
two fearful people left abandoned 
ribs sharp enough to slice through ice
sleep not their companion but a prayer.

they trudge her barren field as phantoms 
grief in silhouette against the dark
two disparate skins weeping their aloneness.

crouched, the one she's named as 'Woman'
digs her earth 'til blood runs free from dirt wrapt nails 
to keen each hole with stifled screams then cover 
to bury like their children unforgotten sown in dust.

mounds blanket Field in peaks of anguish knowing 
that as man's mattock falls he'll rip and reap until 
his flesh succumbs to where his wife recoils
rapped about his ankles 
his fists fed on mud 
to meet day's black and blue of morning
the purple bruised about her mouth.

another day 
another evening 
another night like yesternight

another cry for help 
another beating
their hell of repetition 
feeding Field 
to watch them seed 
and so to harvest - 
until one other time
too late

Sally A Mortemore ©2022