by Sophia Persephone | Satpm21, 112021113002, 21Europe/LondonpmSat, 13 Nov 2021 14:21:51 +0000 | Poetry
It is the same field, but the scents have changed; Now musty sulphur and tangy blood hang on the air. I am cold, Even though it is a hot day at the end of July, And the wheat is waving, almost ripe; Yellow ochre with a tinge of green. Emerald, I would use, If I were...
