The Best-Laid Schemes



We read the words that Robbie wrote, and wept.
The house was not important: just some grasses
In the stubble field. The moment passes,
But memories of sorrow will be kept.
All night long we dance in joyful masses,
Dance-halls filled with flash and glitter.
Night-jars nimbly dive and gaily twitter
As if the sky were made of laughing gases.
Yet late at night I sometimes hear the bitter
Growl of plow against the spreading furrow,
Hear the smash of harrow over burrow,
Leaving wasted life among the litter.

The plow must push, the earth must always yield,
And flesh is grass in Robbie's stubble field.



© Kevin Berland, 1999


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