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[ In memory of Seamus Heaney ] Seeded in autumn, the sown fields Are bordered by hawthorn bushes Where birds feed in winter. Left on its own, this patient crop Accepts the cold when nature is at rest. Waiting in the fertile earth To come forth when Spring rays warm the ground. Stalks waft in the breeze Of early summer as the heads Toss and sway and their seeds Ripen to yellow and tan. A dry sheaf hangs on the wall A symbol of return and The miracle of harvest Before year’s end. Seeds gained by threshing, Slack cleared by winnowing. With the grinding of the mill Gifting us meal for the food Which binds us together. Leavened with yeast The dough lies on the Flour-strewn wooden table And is stretched and folded Folded and stretched with Kneading hands repeating The routine of ages. How welcome this staple grain A link with our deepest past. Let this yield of the earth Give us our daily bread. |
