Of the plain way
JOHN HOLLOWAY
I believe the farmers hate My flower-laden paddock. Three years I Wrenched at the hay with the rotary Roaring, stinking, stalling on the hummocks: Now, I have learnt such wisdom As whispers along the black scythe-blade's Silver brim: work Only to the sound of kisses. Dry To the crisp stalk, to the green Leaf of the grass, the river opens His mouth, takes in a flood As arm, loin, grow to the cut, As scythe and row swing, Swath, of their own: weight and counterweight To a man who turns to a clock.
The black bob ticks. Cant The cut to a tussock : the iron Grows deft as a penknife. When it begins To jag at the hay, the oiled Hone, let it scythe the scythe, at the just Judged angle again.
But timekeeper, watch your streaming dark That flows in a whistle, or
You drown in your own stain on the grass: Wariness, also, makes Sinew, nerve of the plain way.
Previous page
