Sonnet in Memory of John Jones

Sonnet in Vivid Memory of John Jones

A shell stares unseeing at the shorn field,
Listening in vain in the rushing wind,
A broken crow, he croaks, harsh and in vain
Of those of his youth, of an ancient tongue
Now discarded, the detritus of age.
Cold and bent in three like King Llywarch Hen,
He gathered the harvest these hundred years.
The hedgerows and harvest gather around,
His only companions the carrion crows.
The rain is bleak but the harvest is done,
Shall he live another year unhearing
Of the screaming noise of modernity?
I was quietly told that he had died,
The machine roared on, a century sighed.


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