rye

Fleetingly across the lawn a swift’s shadow

falls. I look up. In the blue mid-summer

mid-morning is the moon, a hazy crescent.

Swifts race, with their brief whistles, over the house.

The already heavy air is cut

momentarily by their wings – and then

they are gone into the ancient azure.

 

Beneath the plum tree, among seeds scattered

from the bird feeders, are barley, wheat, rye.

They took root, and now are green and tall –

wild grasses tamed with stone sickles ten

thousand years ago. We will harvest them with

curve bladed secateurs.