All night long they sail,
thrumming pools of light
trailing golden dust clouds,
like steamship plumes
narrowing and fading
into dark obsidian sea,
ships sliding slowly out
into glassy night abyss
where fields of muted stars
bloom on horizons never seen,
kernels of a hope filled night.
Ships of harvest sail,
Combine reels thrash
like old steamers churning
an earthen sea,
guided by willing pilots,
numbed in machinery lullabys
hummed row by row,
where sun danced with rain
on waves of grace grown tall.
copyright 2000, Daniel A Johnson, All rights reserved.