In the dry, golden field, Wheat bound in thrusting blooms, The bending stalks call forth, Unfolded unto the sun, graciously, humbled By the dewy breath of dawn, The low rustling of metallic dreams, Carried softly as the breeze moves, With sounds of life pouring through; Gold becomes yet another humble tone,
Filling the sun’s edges, Drifting upon the air turns, Gravity meets grace, Wheat, freed from expectation.

• “Golden Fields”

• Laura Riding