Hay

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.