By Annette Taylor
In still white chambers, softly drawn,
Where fading breath would sigh,
A soul, adrift from earthly dawn,
Felt twilight drawing nigh.
No sudden fear, no chilling dread,
But pulses slowed and low,
A gentle hum beneath the skin,
As life prepared to go.
Then in the hush, a presence stirred,
A melody unseen,
A quiet, resonant chord was heard,
Through the hush of twilight’s gleam.
Not cloaked in night, nor spectral guise,
But built of sun and loam,
With eyes like dusk on furrowed fields,
He offered solace, home.
A farmer, of the furrowed rows,
Whose touch brought forth the grain,
He gathered souls like autumn’s yield,
Beyond all earthly pain.
No harsh, discordant, tearing sound,
When his soft scythe did gleam,
But shimmered through the golden ground,
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