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Franc Rodriguez


Till the seeds near the moors


The westerly winds come roaring from afar with such strength.
It brings closure to the springs, and shelters the summers at length.
Sea frets therefore slowly drifting upon the wider dales.
They pass the weir, and soon to cover the edge of the swales.
And currents of water that reach to a stir, on the fine grained shale.
There by the lost peats and mosses, and to wane in the nightly gale.
There where alder stipules encompass the bogs and the Elysian Fields.
The whinchats and pipits roam, in search for twigs in the brambles.
There where the succulent bilberries, are plucked in a haste.
On the brink of a knoll, lies the sanctuary of ashes gone to waste.
Upon a croft in the moors, is a remnant of a story that began ere.
There within the spirits of those, who shall come to endure.
A morning breeze appears from alooft to open anew, heaven's doors.
There to bring the next ploughman, to till the seeds near the moors.

Submitted: Friday, April 19, 2013
Edited: Friday, April 19, 2013

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