Harvest machines squeeze the lanes, drag the cut maize
to store. Maize grows fast and feral, it must be chopped fast, it is the kind
of crop that might make a run for it.
It should be quiet then, down by the river, the field
there is ploughed neat, lies waiting.
Butterflies: scraps of bombazine caught on thorny
stems.
Brown earth, bared, corduroyed. Sky flows blue. In the
hedge greens are vivid pips: the purplish sloes, the red hips.
Beyond, below, the river, the bigger river has eaten
up all the rain.
Something slaps the water surface, unseen,
unexplained.
At the edge, where Dog's swim sets a Mallard drake to
wing, one bright thing, turquoise shining, faceted, flies panoramic.
Gorged eyes follow the field edge, the fatted twilled
grass, the splay pattern seed tops. They find a spider, tucked in, patiently
waiting to tuck in. It sits perfectly still for a photograph.
Brown deer, paused, cashmere. White bobs of buttock
flee against the hedged green: leaves quiver.
Comments
I have no idea what bombazine is but the poetry in this sentence is off the charts. (Applause. For the whole post. :))