Black Bean Summer



On a roasting, black bean summer,
we gathered up the haricot to dry;
hard as kernels, nut brown and cream,
even bees seemed to die that year
long before the hives, infested,
divested honey, sharp and clear.
We heard the news beside the stream,
that didn't run and flaps of fish
lay gasping in the burning sun.
we heard how tubes and things,
rings of bells were sounded,
alarms around a hospital bed,
a throat too sore, you couldn't swallow,
tt made the wallowing, shallow somehow.
The breath was still and a stagnant
caramelised breeze settled dust rings
where the men spat tobacco slips
that nipped between the paving cracks.
This was the suffering time, as a
Grim reaper waited and the harvest was late,
its harsh sighs, eking, streaking 'cross fields.
Summer curled that year, even fat clouds
puffed dishearted in a sky that seemed
to shrug a shroud around its bent, dipped shoulders.
We the famished, moved lethargically,
as tragically you gave in and letters, candles
shivered, a sin bin of forgotten promises.
The hearty gave away their meals
as we stole dawn from the evensong.
Life is cruel and taking a necessity.
So when the dust swirled patterns,
to ease your passing, a soft rain fell,
pock marking paths as thirsty grass
and seeds curved hands giving you a salute.
Clouds picked up pace, there was a fanfare.
Perhaps the ground is unrelenting when you fall
yet the landing is just heavy matter.
Pain is unceasing and life is only a leasing of time.
Short or long it stretches only as far
as the horizon before it dips.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 746 times
Written on 2010-06-23 at 12:06

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