The Autumn Fires

Suddenly the wheat fields catch afire
And sparks of red at the horizon's line
Blacken and sear, and catch the wind and gyre
Ascend to motes that die, as on a pyre
And all the golden light has ceased to shine
Suddenly the wheat fields catch afire
And burned as grey as hair, as limbs that tire
The dead line grows still closer now, and dire.
Blacken and sear, and catch the wind and gyre
As middle age sees death in grey attire
Burning the stalks ahead to stubble fine.
Suddenly the wheat fields catch afire
And hopes long held, combust as they aspire
Only to ashes, burned upon the vine
Blacken and sear, and catch the wind and gyre
The ancient fire that takes, and claims to sire
(for what it's worth) the new land and the wine.
Suddenly the wheat fields catch afire
Blacken and sear, and catch the wind and gyre.