Jul 092009
Season
Rust is ripeness, rust.
And the wilted corn-plume.
Pollen is mating-time when swallows
weave a dance.
Of feathered arrows
Thread corn-stalks in winged
Streaks of light. And we loved to hear
Spliced phrases of the wind, to hear
Rasps in the field, where corn-leaves
pierce like bamboo slivers.
Now, garnerers we,
Awaiting rust on tassels, draw
Long shadows from the dusk, wreathe
The thatch in wood-smoke. Laden stalks
Ride the germ’s decay-we await
The promise of the rust.
By: WOLE SOYINKA
