In the Cornfield behind the Old Forge at Cookley

in-the-cornfield

We heard the goddess of the corn; late summer’s breeze that dipped and pooled
In golden patterns through the stalks like mercury. As evening cooled
The buzzing landscape shadows stretched in minarets from guardian trees,
And danced with every breath the dusk exhaled, creating yellow seas
In square fields. Here the crickets played their tuneless violins; the blinds
Of night, in duck-egg greens and blues, now stretching upwards from behind
The woodland fringe. With chimneys silhouetted on the pastel clouds
The Tudor forge, a ruined shell, turned black as evening drew its shroud
Across the rolling patchwork. With a cornstalk each between our teeth
We watched the goddess as she passed; invisible; but there beneath
Her cloak of woven stars the corn bent down in worship as she made
Her way across the summer’s dusk and dragged the dark night in her wake.

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24 responses to “In the Cornfield behind the Old Forge at Cookley

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