MOORED.

The track in misty
Cover was consumed,
Though barely two feet
Higher focus bloomed;

A rolling wheat field
Searching for a scythe
To garner it beneath
The shed of night,

Where whispered crystals
Powdered on the board
And dusty colours
On the ground were chalked,

And I walked firm from
Foot to sweeping foot,
Slow reaping me a
Path through evening soot,

Until I cleared the
Way along your road,
And stayed until the
Crop again was sowed.