This is the wind, the wind in a field of corn
baked golden and heavy, heaving to the
wind’s caress, mirroring the yield and flex
of lovers moulding a nest in the corn.
These are the moonlit whispers of the old boys
weaving a course back from The Speckled Hen,
shushing themselves and chuckling as they
fold corn into tomorrow’s tabloid news.
This is tonight’s bed for the man from the north
who, searching for an answer in the shoal
of cold stars, finds myriad tomorrows
and reeling, clings like a babe to the corn.
And the sweet soil which yielded the wealth of man,
since the milk-thistle and briar held sway,
is the church to which we return as ash,
and become the wind in a field of corn.
Jill London. This adapted from the poem Wind, by James Fenton. The original is available here; https://poetryarchive.org/poem/wind/