The grass is
To run like the sea, to be glossed like a mink’s
By polishing wind.
Her heart is the weather.
She loves
Least of all the farmer who leans on the gate.
The grass is
When the June sun roasts the foxgloves in the hedges.
She comes into her flower.
She lifts her skirts.
It does not concern
The pondering farmer has begun to hope.
The grass is happy to open her scents, like a dress, through the county,
Drugging light
To heavy betrothals And next April’s fools,
While pensioners puzzle where life went so airily.
The grass is
When the spinner tumbles her, she silvers and she
Plain as a castle.
The hare looks for
And the dusty
For a hand-shaped cloud and a yellow evening.
Happy the
To be wooed by the farmer, who wins her and brings her to church in her beauty,
Bride of the Island.
Luckless the
Aeons of
Before he came to mow.
