August Hail

In late summer the wild geese
In the white draws are flying.
The grain beards in the blue peace.
The weeds are drying.

The hushed sky breeds hail.
Who shall avenge unreason?
Wheat headless in the white flail
Denies the season.

J.V. Cunningham, from The Exclusions of a Rhyme

Unreason avenges itself, I find.  Would I were a better poet, or did not swallow my words before my mouth opened, but for now, Cunningham says it as well as I might, and considerably better.


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