Walking at the edge

In this summer of long walks and silences,
closeness and distancing,
small explorations – we pick our way along
the very edges of the field, through thistles,
and green grass, where the wheat
peters out, and small flowers,
bright in the sunlight.
We’re good visitors. We walk the margins,
respect John Barleycorn.

I like the smell,
the raw green smell of wheat,
and the colour, green edging
into gold – sun-warmed, sun-bleached,
sun-fed, sun-ripened, taking us
joyfully and inevitably into autumn;
and I like the sound, small waves
rolling rolling, and I like the movement
of the wind sweeping the heavy-headed wheat,
the ripple of it – water, silk, fur.

I like the life in it.

Rosemarie Gonzales is hosting at dVerse tonight, and we are exploring wheat.

Walking – poem for NaPoWriMo

So if I were to walk,

just walk, my feet beating

a rhythm on the tarmac,

past the ground in gum,

and the dark stains,

and the shadow of the hedge

that is cut twice a year,

just walk, step by step,

one step and then another,

out of the town, away

from the grey road, onto dirt,

red dirt, brown dirt, black dirt,

my feet sinking a little

into the soft earth,

the good soil, and the grass

clinging just a little

as I brush through it,

and the sweet smell of it,

just walk, one step,

two steps, left, right,

pacing a rhythm,

swinging a rhythm

with my arms,

hearing a rhythm in my head,

and over the curve, to the sand,

soft and dry, and then firm

and then my feet sinking deep,

sole deeper, heel deeper,

would I remember to stop?