Marginalia
At the edge Of field and footpath Stray strands of life Grow furtive, ears listening To the sound of harvest. Seeds scattered perhaps by starlings, Renegade grains renouncing ordered rows, Thriving in cracks and bootprints Beyond the boundaries.
They see their sisters die, And know what happens next; Only the steady grinding of the mills. Hidden by the hedge, stretching Silently to reach the sun, Hoping never to be known; Theirs is a strange freedom, Yet they outlast The season's end.
“Truth is the harvest scythe” – attributed to the Book of the Dead.