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.