The grass is happy

To run like a sea, to be glossed like a mink’s fur

By polishing wind.

Her heart is the weather.

She loves nobody

            Least of all the farmer who leans on the gate.


The grass is happy

When the June sun roasts the foxgloves in the hedges.

She comes into her flower.

She lifts her skirts.

It does not concern her

            The pondering farmer has begun to hope.


The grass is happy

To open her scents, like a dress, through the county,

Drugging light hearts

To heavy betrothals

And next April’s Fools,

            While pensioners puzzle where life went so airily.


The grass is happy

When the spinner tumbles her, she silvers and she sweetens.

Plain as a castle

The hare looks for home

And the dusty farmer

            For a hand-shaped cloud and a yellow evening.


Happy the grass

To be wooed by the farmer, who wins her and brings her

to church in her beauty,

Bride of the Island.

Luckless the long-drawn

Aeons of Eden

            Before he came to mow.



from the collection ‘Season Songs’