Lament of the Dispossesed

Running through the wheatfields,

With the last of the woods laid low,

Our company heard a cuckoo,

In lament we rose to sow.

A mist from our boughs ascended,

Out of daylight a moon shone clear,

A stain from the sky descended,

And the flood crept slowly near.

No ark has come to save us,

Not a branch or political wave,

But castles in the sky are sailing,

With the wind of yellow brick days.

(After Kinsella)