A September poem and a plea for a return to the old practices of letting the stubble lie….
Let Lie the Stubble
The stubble pricks the mud chin of the field;
he is a rough sleeper now, hard to wake
and hungover in his itching blanket,
all gold gone. This is a place of mute reeds
and hollow men. The dance is spent, the best
is taken, and the second best, and all
that remains are days cut short and brittle
stick memories of the fat festival .
But here thrive the linnet and corn bunting,
Here grows the fat hen and blue field speedwell;
You can think here without fear of treading
On the future and in the fallow field,
Revel on the clod past. Growth is not all
That matters. Stay still. Let lie the stubble.