today they mowed the grass 

the roar of the terror 

filled the morning 

cutting 

hacking 

crashing

slicing 

the fields were in agony 

under noonday sun 

 the birds swept frantically to and fro 

mourning their lost nests 

searching for the little ones 

my ears ached with the screams 

of the living wounded things 

but after the anguish 

and the death 

and the weeping 

came a calm 

and then a fragrance 

rose from the stricken fields 

a sweet sigh of pure beautiful pain 

even though it was only meadow grass 

the sweetness was there 

and the merciful sky 

wept a soft rain 

onto the rows of fallen flowers 

and the fragrance swelled 

and hung 

in the gentle air 

and my heart wondered 

at the awful beauty of the mowing