ghosts – having trod this field before me –
have signed the track new with silent boot and scythe.
They came to pass; made my way plain:
my bearing clarified by clover beribboning the glebe’s brink –
a shock of verdant stripe, bright after slack stubble –
sharp after soft: an excised edge keen as the blades
stopped short of earth’s full mastery.
So I move on with grace and gratitude:
true as the plough; and pure as those prior souls.