On an apple-ripe September
Through the mist-chill fields I
With a pitch-fork on my
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up,
I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the
Since last year.
O it was
To be paying bills of
And chaffy gossip in
With work thrown in to
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I
As I looked into the
If ever a summer morning should find
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps' nest in the
And how I got chased one
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the
Polished my boots as
Went round by the glistening
Lost in unthinking joy.
I'll be carrying bags to-day,
I mused,
The best job at the
With plenty of time to talk of our
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round…And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
