the extreme quiet is waiting for wheat.
the horses’ hooves had clay-modelled a path
while Spring’s newness still hung in sheets
as Summer’s first mowing left aftermath
which shone over what had tried to be green.
morning fog was replaced with thermal white
that made the sky too intense to be seen
although damp in the grass still clung on tight.
the route was recalled by rote except things
that were hidden - like the narrow clay trail
or a handheld gate with a weight to swing
it back. indeed memory only fails
at lost entrances kept in the shade
which forgetting’s dead weight has counter-weighed.
31 May 2021