The wind whistles softly,
through my bed
of night
on the barren plains
wheatless and white.
She comes to tell me
the roses
one or more
lie wilted
beyond my sight.
Tears follow,
while I listen in silence
to her cracked voice
spewing-out the conditions
of the time
past.
They were lovers
in this very field,
landlord's daughter
farmer's son,
and between the golden reams
they produced what they
needn't.
So she comes to tell me
she's sorry
it was a mistake . . .
I was a mistake . . .
Perhaps, I think,
everyone is a mistake.
Robert Allison
17/03/79