The Sheaf

My life, as a slant of rain
On the grey earth fields
Is gathered in thirsty silence, disappears.
I cannot even guess
The roots, but fell them sighing
In the stir of the soil I die to. Let the rain
Be on the children of my heart,
I have no other ones.
On the generations,
On the packed cells and dreaming shoots,
The untried hopes, the waiting good
I send this drop to melt.

Edwin Morgan