Leuchtturm 5

Wheat,
    Burnt gold.

That sudden crash
    In the kitchen
    In the middle of the night;

        The fumbling after deadbolt;

        The panicked heal
        Hooked over spike-lip
        Beneath the shaking steel door.

What is it for, worth, when the last light

    Moving over fields
    Is final, same
    As the dreaded miles,

    And the way through 
    That was beaten down
        Again, again,

            Is grown over every morning?