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In hardship and longing,
he buried a sum of Rye,
a rye whose destination,
he knows not...

Like a gentle harsh boy,
he waters the dead earth,
to infinite day of no realm,
unsure of his own doing,
sincere to the secale cerale

Of utmost bewilderment,
from early winter,
loosing hope of possible harvest,
ultimately Secale sprouts in autumn,

His basket of expectation filled afresh,
he nurtures on his aim,
expecting soon a gigantic harvest,
then in spring at last,
he might dance home joyous;

if his Secale hasn't befriend ergot...

He realises he is been favoured,
in the long run,
in his time of waiting,
the field is been prepared ahead,
for possible future cultivation.

Such is the faith of the lad,
unsure of his own thild,
predictably for a better later on,
unaware his today's challenge,
combats the possibly lingering ones.

At last!
his grain of thole,
left his wretched earth fertile,
after vigorous growth he surpresses,
his noxious competitors with concrete 

Thanks for reading , you worth it's weight in gold .

Your comments and reactions are recognised and appreciated by this poet .

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Unknown said…
Epi!, You doing well..

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