Harvest Moon ©
I walked the twilight of Scots pine
bathed in moon's stigmata.
Grey smoke snaked perimeter edges,
rolled between silver moonbeams
and danced with cloud shadows
into the darkening night.
An eerie quiet hung in the air,
and I drank from the stillness.
Farm machines etched the sky,
their steel skeletons a macabre outline
of crusted chaff and black grease,
held the night's hush. Their silver nimbus
haunting a spent harvest, a field of nakedness,
that bared an undergarment of straw and stubble.
I saw our croft basking in soft moonlight,
your flour-dusted kitchen, your whitened nails
from stretched dough that fed a thousand workers.
I could see you in your foetal bed,
exhausted, yet content waiting for the moon
to set, and ignite your sleeping chaos.
A chaos under your control.
I looked up at the Harvest Moon,
it's full belly reflecting the end
of a good season. A warm breeze turned my thoughts
to sleep and home, and you drew me there.