Having goldilocksed across a continent,
they settle on only the just-right
floodplains and put up palisades.

They know the exact worth of this land
where wheat will catch and grow,
where the mountains augur favourable rains.

They have discarded rye and barley,
whittled down the wide rainbow of grasses
their grandparents ate to a productive few.

At harvest, the blades of their scythes
turn glossy; the tough plant fibres
polishing the flint as they reap.

They are verging on calendar and megaliths
and every day new words are being born:
yield surplus cellar hoard.

They cannot help but turn them over
and over in the hollow of their minds
like beads of bright resin.

What could prove more precious
than einkorn and emmer amassed
in the murk of the longhouse?

Lie awake at night and feel the air
thick with dormant calories,
tomorrow coiled in the spaces between the grains.

Subscribe to Read More