And so we rest and guilty take our ease,
within the butter yellow corn,
fearing that a listless solemn haughty August,
should stir from smouldering embers
and catch us naked in its swathe.
Like blinded furtive lovers lying hot and damp,
amongst the signal poppy crop,
seduced, we roll to face the pastel sky
and shade our eyes,
aware the reaping somewhere has begun.
© Graham Sherwood
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