The Land is Fallow

 

The land is fallow, the virus has struck

the grass weeps and the fields sleep

Trees stand bare as onlookers stare

the land is fallow for a while, a year

 

The land is pock marked with tangled weeds

no longer is it time to sow the seeds

People retreat to the warmth of their hearth

nothing is achieved on inertia's path

 

Clouds and rain no longer impact

the sun's watery glare has no growth or impact

We hibernate in fearful isolation of dread

as the land is fallow in the mourning of the dead

 

A year is lost to frustration and grief

as the virus has become a deadly thief

The land is dormant as souls are buried

and still no seeds are scatttered on rows that are seried

 

The land is fallow our bones are marrow

yet lifeless there is no change for tomorrow

The earth sighs beneath the weight of our feet

waiting for the sound of the farmer's feet

 

New seeds and a vaccine are due to appear

a celebration of a new awakening are near

Through arid darkness and prolonged pain

comes a cure and  much needed rain