Re-mixed by Solar Flare and the Geomagnetic Storm that Ensues
Yes, it’s a heady mix—the dry crops
and the smell of wheat so strong
it almost cancels out the poisons
that have fed it; it’s that temperature
just off “warm,” and a lack of breeze
that steams the head. It either pacifies
or embalms and rarely agitates.
From here, with the days sharp
and rain coming with mornings,
it smells of earth and slowly
decomposing leaves: the recent
yellow falls agitate in what
they don’t say, amongst apples
turning out their seeds. It’s that precise
time when no comparisons
can be drawn, and even inversions
are fruitless: but there’s this solar flare
that charges us with the same magnetism...
Tonight, I will look to the sky
for the lights, the strongest
show is expected. What lights
there stand out, I wonder?
Who will look up as the crops
move temptingly towards harvest?—
their deaths the district’s joy,
while here the ground hardening,
the frosts in on clear nights,
tubers pricked in the consciences
as the geomagnetic storm rages,
upsetting satellite communications,
a reminder that predictions
of bumper harvests, the yellowing
headiness of wheat in the air,
can come to nothing
when chocked with lightning,
the storm rips in and makes the sun dark.