In celebration of a new crop circle season
On England's fields our elders oft appear
To fold the rape down in a dance of light.
They come in series, one for every year
In vast poetic puzzles left at night.
The greatest mathematicians can't decipher,
The most religious scholars can't believe,
Artists wish they could produce such ciphers,
Mystics of all stripes construe these weaves.
Some code ascension data in their straw fronds,
There's some that show a hybrid DNA,
Some hide celestial maps inside our icons,
But what it really means no one can say,
Except to prove there is a higher mind
Whose glyphs give hope that we can be aligned.
CHILLS ADDENDUM: The day after this was posted, a crop circle appeared a few farms from Avebury town centre that looked suspiciously like the City of Phoenix logo
