Idyllic

How your hand works the flood of fire. Destined 

smoke scribbles to heaven. Workers place life 

into the field, waiting. Eons. By the lonely stream,

flanked by gentle slopes, ever is carried to some 

unknown locale. There is no night plunder. 

No noisy, raucous indulgence to be repenting for. 

Only the toil, and the labour to be loved. 

Words are whispered by birds and kept by crickets. 

Muscle refined through motion in the business 

of subsistence, at the tools to the tending 

raking rearing. By the thatched shade, profusely 

sweating, a reprieve of replenishing water 

cool and causally needed. 

Sometimes the seat is a pagan boulder. 

At times the eating is a little more meagre. 

Never wed before the altar. 

Just a trust in the land, 

and the guidance of the hand 

which places you before the bed

and sets you to slumber 

in this lost relic

out in the lumber.