The mist had settled over the field,
And covered the crops it would yield.
It seemed to move with a will its own,
Over the field that with seeds been sewn.
A figure moved amongst the waves,
And passed crops as though graves.
It wandered lost without sight,
As the sun reached out with first light.
Slowly the mist began to depart,
As though it were a breaking heart.
It clung longest to the stranger,
Who wandered to the barn's manger.
So who was this strange figure,
Who wandered through crops sure?
We may never truly know,
The memory with the dew went to go.
A contest entry
- Take this photo where you wish by rbruce.
1500 points, ended November 6, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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