Trace my steps knowingly
with your whispered incantations.
See me to the crest
and look down on the terrace
they have carved out for us.
What of tenderness remains
in the subdued glory of lowly pastures
whose only wish was to fortify
the outstretched arms of chance
and the ploughman’s lament?
Redemption lies just beneath the surface
of impassioned passes to and fro,
of weathered hopes and copious returns.
Fruit beckons becoming as old iniquities are put to rest.
A procession of future mornings looks back over its shoulder
and shivers in wistful delight.
Art: “Enclosed field with Ploughman”
Vincent van Gogh