The old man was standing,
still and quite,
his back turned to the sun
as it drowned
in stormy shades of orange and pink.
The old man was still and quite,
staring the wavy distant line
hills and mountains drew.
The warmness of the dying day
spread a scent of hay, exhaling,
a violet blue slowly cloaking
distance and nearness.
As the full moon rose
in close roundness,
brightening contours
in a charcoal outline,
the old man lowered his head
and turned away.
In the early morning,
their feet wet by the dew
glimmering the fields,
giggling children
and women with panniers
swinging in their hands
would come
and harvest
the ripening fragrancy
of strawberry fields.
This poem is an exercise, a challenge. Please see below the motivation for it.
(I apologize to you all for having unwarely posted the draft i was still working on, please forgive my distraction and hope you still like it. Thank you.)
~~~
Poetry Prompt (www.pw.org)
Each month a full moon rises in the sky, and each of these moons has a special name. In June the full moon is known as the Full Strawberry Moon, a name given to it by the Algonquin tribes, to whom it signaled the time to gather the ripening fruit. In Europe, where the strawberry is not a native fruit, this moon is known as the Full Rose Moon. (Excerpt)