Eve of the cut

• 

Purple light and the bruised sky,
dusk falls with the rustle of silken rain
on the golden-stalked meadow,
the last silent cry before the cut.

Dusk falls with the rustle of silken rain
from the purple-bruised clouds.
Night creeps from hedge-shadows

on the golden stalked meadow,
tomorrow to be shorn, scattering raindrops
and the purple flush of the storm-sky,

the last silent cry before the cut
of scythe, the refuge fallen in swathes
of insect flight and voracious swallows.