The Farmer in Bonne Terre.

A Poem by Joshua Lean

he is standing like a mosque
the noise of prayer blowing out of him in steady whispers. the sun is
colouring itself on his skin, mighty hues of purplish gold. and in his
well eyes there is nothing, or maybe a cloud.
many get lost here. the heaven of this town leans too close too the
ground. our prayers are low and many.

clambering through rough cabbages and withering tomatoes, his hands
become spiral binds in the quick November winds. partakers in the
ageless craft of regeneration. and somewhere there is a missing child
that will not be found, faded gowns and fathers that will return to a
love that has turned cold. this is what he does for them, for us

the rains come, and he is still whispering,
when we have forgotten what to pray for. like the taxi driver from
Bagatelle he has cold greasy fingers, and wrinkles that seem to hold
his face together. he smells of cigarettes and evening air. of dust
and ripeness.

he does not mind the fireworks
or the dogs, or the cars, these things fall away. it is only the
saxophone he hears. in the evening, the Kenyan girl plays on the roof.
her music stretching over us like an endless yawn in the sky

for her he plants the olives and the spring onions. when the morning comes
the world is soft and he has put a new seed in the earth