In the field of the thorntrees,
near the edge of the world,
we tended the beasts
and broke the stones,
before and since the days of Christ.
Our coats were the colours
of mosses, of heathers,
all the hues of the earth.
Sicknesses and darkest storms
did not diminish or defeat us.
We shared the plough, hewn from driftwood;
our cups were made from leather;
we drank the dawn-cold water of life
and sowed the seeds of generations.
The ways of our world seemed endless.
But the cross became too much to bear.
The spirit faltered, faded, died,
and we were scattered far,
throughout the cities, across the plains.
Soon we learned to toil for others.
In the field of the thorntrees
the visitors come;
they wander through our rooms
and through our past; our lifeblood
slows, congealing in the years' slow dusk
Jim C Wilson
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