Grain

In the quiet hush of dawn, the fields awake,
A sea of amber whispering soft and low,
Each stalk a promise, each ear a partake
Of earth’s patient bounty, gently in a row.

The farmer walks the furrows, boots sunk deep,
Hand tracing furrows where the stalks have bent,
Feeling the grain—its texture, warm and steep—
A quiet hymn of harvest, sweetly spent.

From wheat to barley, oats to rye so fine,
The grain is life, the staff of every loaf,
It feeds the nation, steadfast as the line
That runs through seasons, steadfast, warm, and loft.

When millstones turn and flour falls like snow,
And ovens glow with crusts of golden hue,
We taste the earth, the sun, the rain we sow—
In every bite, the grain’s true flavour true.

So raise a loaf, break bread with loving care,
For in each crumb lies sun‑kissed earth’s own prayer.