Verdes são nossos campos

(PRM)

by T.P. Wilkinson / April 29th, 2018

evening
falls
evening
falls
like the tears
like the years
floating
to the river
the river
whose waters
wet our toes
wash away our woes.

without
the rain
without
the pain
no plant can grow
no flower blossom
the sun
remains
to take the rain
to turn our worries
into fields of wheat
into fruit and wine

Evening comes
so stars can shine
so like them
we can remember
light and life
tears and love
contain in the Earth
all that is divine.

T.P. Wilkinson, Dr. rer. pol. writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..

This article was posted on Sunday, April 29th, 2018 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.