Newnham Valley: The Lovely Fields
Silvered sheep, softly bleating. Cider rain seduces the fleet sickle smile.
Rams sleep bundled: cotton balls in jars. Jammed. Barley barely in the barns.
Fields, wanton in gold undress. Night winds swell, stir. Jewels pressed bold from sheaf.
Surfeit pleated wheat, ripe wheat, weeps, ‘reap us, reap and thresh us.’ Replete we lie…
till dawn kisses, kisses whiskery silken ears. Gurning at a hung over sun,
in patient breezes, amber pressed in jar, we knew we’d live forever…
On bloodied knees, drone upon stone, we labour. Earth turns and turns again,
pink, green, gold, grey. Fall and tread of our Father’s boot and breath, scythe the days.
Twigs grip loose honey leaves, like tenuous lover’s hands. Torn asunder
as train cleaves, grieves. Love flails down plundered tracks. Sycamore spins wild, spins wild.
Red maple’s menarche ends. Spring sap augured, sugared .Crimson boughs shimmy
low. Pert apples blush, pressed on prayer mats, cramming Heaven’s gourds.
And the heaving skirts of the plum trees can- can high in finial song,
gift amethysts to God . On purple knees, cast opulent crowns. Grapes fall.
My garden is over.Grown.The fountain is choked with fistfuls of sod.
Till I pluck the rose and the snow babes quicken. Come wind, blow sweet and warm.