‘tis a country girl that knows to be
in complete and utter harmony
with the wild that calls within, within,
in the dead of lonely nights
but she wakes to find the sun up high
on the crying fields.
The crying fields spread far and wide
over all her hopes and needs inside
and she traces them with hands attuned
to the fabric of despair.
Such fabric is o’er laid with fear
and studded with the beads of need
and the pattern formed a travesty
of the wild that calls within.
‘tis country girls and woman folk
who know of harmony and fear
and how it works to blend and meld
the real into the false
and grow amidst the crying fields
one red and vibrant rose.
That rose looks left and right,
sisters, brothers, none
and then it knows to stand upright
and speak for those who can’t
and it screams into the atmosphere
with all it’s innate might.
The echo travels far and wide
but so deep within the crying fields
it fades before the target reached
and the rose knows it must die
before the next sunrise.
Today there is no rose to shout;
the crying fields have spread and grown
beyond the confines of the known
and of country girls and woman folk
they’ve become like you and me
misplaced and dispossessed
of the wild that calls within!
Helen / 14 September 2009
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