PAREN

Wole Soyinka : Season

Rust is ripeness, rust.

And the wilted corn-plume.

Pollen is mating-time when swallows

weave a dance.

Of feathered arrows

Thread corn-stalks in winged

Streaks of light. And we loved to hear

Spliced phrases of the wind, to hear

Rasps in the field, where corn-leaves

pierce like bamboo slivers.

Now, gardeners we,

Awaiting rust on tassels, draw

Long shadows from the dusk, wreathe

The thatch in wood-smoke. Laden stalks

Ride the germ’s decay-we await

The promise of the rust.

By: WOLE SOYINKA