Out on Peanut Road the trucks are rolling,
rumbling, basso continuo in the dark.
Dawn is half an hour away and the dogs
are eager for me to fill their bowls. They hear
the musics of the morning, mist-diffused,
rise from these fields, dewed webs of night time humming,
pulsing, pianissimo in tremulous
resonance, in tensions of light and dark.
The sun will sing its way into the day
as every voice of dawn joins in the chorus,
cardinal and mocking bird take up
the tune, rising, rising, on the stillness
to skies of promise. I am hidden here,
in chiaroscuro of my own hand,
the semblance of a man rapt in his shadows.
Fog and trees obscure the light of headlamps;
soon, those who hurry to a job somewhere
will be on the road, and tractors making
their way to fields of cotton or of peanuts.
Whether they spread poison or fertilizer
this day, I do not know. Sometimes both
at once, life and death together sprayed
up and down the rows, the farmer a god
handing out salvation and damnation
to those below his wheels. When the sun
has burnt away the mist, where shall we hide?
Out on Peanut Road, the traffic murmurs
of morning. There is coffee in the kitchen.
Stephen Brooke ©2014