--------------
On solstice day
The grass grows high,
Swaying, swaying;
Uncut these months to crop as hay
Like women’s hair it swells
In the dust-hot breeze;
Above in the eye-blue sky
The clouds assaying
Like merchant-men float by, float by,
And I,
Wading the rock pool depths of grass
Treading soft quilts,
Rattling the seed heads
Like sea snails’ shells,
Shrink in the skin-dry blaze of sun
Honeying the leaning leaze.
Hedgerows scorched as brass
Tick with the tuts
Of long-tailed tits
And
A cinnabar moth
Like a blood-splashed leaf
Lilts and jilts, lilts and jilts,
Drifting among the petals and shreds
Of white Anne’s lace
And knapweed’s bun
Of shock-blue threads,
Yellow yarrow and violet vetch.
Waist-high in the grasses’ butts,
Heavy with grits,
I run a dust-scent hand
Through the blond stalks
Of stiff-eared barley
And fescue like broth,
Purplish dog’s tail and tufted bent –
All pleated in suede and fawn.
Ah, it’s Barleycorn’s grief
That he’s scythed from his place
For dark malt or for breads
And in a crock to fetch;
And thumping Bible truth talks
Of wheat that must parley
And agree to be pent
In the earth’s black bourn
While shriving winter passes
That there be riot of grasses.
====================
©
June 2014