Sitting in a field
I watch the grain yield
To the fickle
Sickle
That momentarily spares a stalk
As onward the reaper doth walk.
When he does approach
Will I reproach
Him and say,
“‘Tis not my day
To die
For the birds fly
In a cloudless sky.
I would gather wild flowers to my breast.
Surely ‘tis not time to rest?
Reaper go your way
For I feign would play
Another hour under the sun”.
Will he reply,
“All things must die.
You have had your fun.
Did you not see time, as the river run
Away?
Cease your play.
Face it like a man, for you have debts to pay”.
Is food a bit of a problem in the England of the future?
K Morris - Poet 