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
Incoming search terms for the article:
- wole soyinka; season (2)
- promise of the rust season wole soyinka (1)
- rust is ripeness rust soyinka (1)
- wole soyinka season rust is ripeness (1)
