FARMYARD, MORNING

The prose of time & seasons — Poetry by J. M. Summers

FARMYARD, MORNING

By J. M. Summers

There he stands, making a survey of 
these the fields which keep him bound. 
What does it matter that the 
mist clothes the trees in a glamour 
that makes a mystery of even the common 
robin perched observing disinterestedly 
the haunted light that presages the 
coming day, the dew glossed toil of 
spiders sitting poised, poisonous, 
ready too to be busy, or that the 
light which will pour lustily 
from the heavens to spear the ground 
breaks with a revelation the eyes, 
made common by the everyday spectacle, 
have become dull to the sense of.
His world surely is defined by the
prose of times, and seasons, the
birth and slow death that beat the
march from spring through to a restless 
autumn heavy with the thunder of
falling leaves into the mud in which
he stands, noting wearily their fall. 
Are there foreign desires that might 
lead to a more permanent fall? 
His ways are the ones which will endure, 
following a habit born from patience, 
the dumb expectation that awaits the 
first strangled lamb's cry.

J.M. Summers was born and still lives in South Wales. Publication credits include Another Country from Gomer Press and various magazines / anthologies. The former editor of a number of small press magazines, he is currently working on his first collection.

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