On the day the madness came
The brain failed in the rain.
At first, the nothingness
of dull earth turned,
Churning, wormless where the
Wildling finger whorls thrust seeds
Into unlikely soil.
A wild, dark wait
Before the miracle of lines of
Something else than seed.
And will it stand the telling?
How the small shoots grew
Into a new spring, summer,
mounds of mad manure
And crazy compost in the mind’s
Dark loam.
There is no end to this-
Just the whispering of leaves
The darkness of the winter wait
And summer crops that never fail
To wave with life
With slug and snail.
This year the sunflowers came
With massive heads as large as love
And beaming out to all in pain
That from the smallest seed
A life can come, will come, has come again.

Francis Hallam

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