Church by Jon Warden

Church Farm

Jen Mead

Autumn has drawn a foggy curtain
Over the farm by the Church,
Trading rich summer gold for burnt coppers
Scattered and spent among the leaves.

In the fading gloom
A tractor driver traces patterns
Across the ploughed land.
Absorbed in mechanical rhythm he moves
Away from the church, towards the wood
Away from the wood, towards the church
Changing the face of the earth
With every pass.

A noise disturbs him
Jangling off-beat and out-of-tune.
Resigned and weary he climbs from the cab,
Fumbles in the mud
And removes a rusty horse shoe
Hooked up in the harrows.
How many bouts to go?
How many have been here before?

Later, turning into the homeward stretch,
With just enough light to see,
He is startled by two deer
Watching close by
Like statues – strange, silent and beautiful,
Unperturbed by his roaring machine
As it strains across the heavy clay.
And in that dusky moment
His heart misses a beat
Filled with splendour so measureless
He holds his breath
Knowing it will slip away.

The last rays melt behind the spire,
As he reaches the lane and yawns
Thinking of supper and a good night’s rest.
The seedbed is ready, the pattern is complete.

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The Birth of an Idea

Ioanna Boulouta

Deep in the starless mind

A presence disturbs its loneliness

Formless, leaving its prints in mystery

Hiding behind the trees of imagination

Till a sharp ray of light coax it out

Giving it full shape, full consciousness

An idea is born; a body has entered the mind.