Season By Wole Soyinka

Season

By

Wole Soyinka

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, garnerers 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.

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