Part 2 (1/2)

Unexpectedly, his bicycle slung With a light ladder and a bag of knives.

He eyed the old rigging, poked at the eaves, Opened and handled sheaves of lashed wheat-straw.

Next, the bundled rods: hazel and willow Were flicked for weight, twisted in case they'd snap.

It seemed he spent the morning warming up: Then fixed the ladder, laid out well-honed blades And snipped at straw and sharpened ends of rods That, bent in two, made a white-p.r.o.nged staple For pinning down his world, handful by handful.

Couchant for days on sods above the rafters, He shaved and flushed the b.u.t.ts, st.i.tched all together Into a sloped honeycomb, a stubble patch, And left them gaping at his Midas touch.

The Peninsula

When you have nothing more to say, just drive

For a day all round the peninsula.

The sky is tall as over a runway, The land without marks, so you will not arrive But pa.s.s through, though always skirting landfall.

At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill, The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable And you're in the dark again. Now recall The glazed foresh.o.r.e and silhouetted log, That rock where breakers shredded into rags, The leggy birds stilted on their own legs, Islands riding themselves out into the fog, And drive back home, still with nothing to say Except that now you will uncode all landscapes By this: things founded clean on their own shapes, Water and ground in their extremity.

Requiem for the Croppies

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley

No kitchens on the run, no striking camp We moved quick and sudden in our own country.

The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.

A people, hardly marching on the hike We found new tactics happening each day: We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike And stampede cattle into infantry, Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.

Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.

Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.

The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.

They buried us without shroud or coffin And in August the barley grew up out of the grave.

Undine

He slashed the briars, shovelled up grey silt

To give me right-of-way in my own drains And I ran quick for him, cleaned out my rust.

He halted, saw me finally disrobed, Running clear, with apparent unconcern.

Then he walked by me. I rippled and I churned Where ditches intersected near the river Until he dug a spade deep in my flank And took me to him. I swallowed his trench Gratefully, dispersing myself for love Down in his roots, climbing his bra.s.sy grain But once he knew my welcome, I alone Could give him subtle increase and reflection.

He explored me so completely, each limb Lost its cold freedom. Human, warmed to him.

The Wife's Tale

When I had spread it all on linen cloth

Under the hedge, I called them over.

The hum and gulp of the thresher ran down And the big belt slewed to a standstill, straw Hanging undelivered in the jaws.

There was such quiet that I heard their boots Crunching the stubble twenty yards away.

He lay down and said, 'Give these fellows theirs, I'm in no hurry,' plucking gra.s.s in handfuls And tossing it in the air. 'That looks well.'

(He nodded at my white cloth on the gra.s.s.) 'I declare a woman could lay out a field Though boys like us have little call for cloths.'

He winked, then watched me as I poured a cup And b.u.t.tered the thick slices that he likes.

'It's thres.h.i.+ng better than I thought, and mind It's good clean seed. Away over there and look.'

Always this inspection has to be made Even when I don't know what to look for.