Winter Fields,1916 - Poem by John Puddifoot
The winter wheat has fallen in the field;
Its tender sprigs lie sundered on the clay.
The rain that bores in streams through line and line,
Has sluiced its precious life away.
A goading wind still chatters at the ears,
As sprawling stems decline, deflect, deform,
Subside in pools of harboured slime, and hunch
In rows that genuflect before the storm.
And girls will let their braids and tresses down,
And curlicues unravel as they drop.
But who’s to know of it, or love them now?
The winter field will yield no crop.
Would thunder-cracks could resurrect the dead,
The rotting stems unwither in the eye,
And curlicues be dancing in a bed,
The rain fall pitter-patter from the sky
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