Between two fields in verdant valley, like a stiff
and sunbleached snake
Winds a fence of nail and timber through the drifts
of dancing grain.

On the one hand, wheat like treasure gleams beneath
the basking sun;
On the other sweet corn hides, coarse green sheathes
'round every one.

Never will the golden armies march upon
the green-clad host,
Nor towering stalks be heard to taunt or carry on
with lively boasts.

And yet the fence in deep earth rooted separates
the two from each.
It doesn't seem to empathize; to love, to hate;
ignore or preach.

What is the purpose of this fence? The question creeps
upon my heart.
For whitewashed planks though clean and pretty will not keep
the two apart.

Perhaps it is a marker only of middle ground
where nothing grows,
A place the farmer looked upon but never found
the need to sow.

Someone cares enough to keep the timbers mended,
post holes filled.
The fence has, by its nature, won: the war prevented,
no blood spilled.

And so peace reigns in verdant valley while the skylarks
dive and sing.
The bells toll loudly every morning, will you hearken
as they ring?


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Chronos, in the year 390 AF.