Somehow the joy of pulling grass
Is amongst other joys without a peer,
Strange as it seems.
A wayside hedge I cannot pass
And not pluck grasses in a kind of sheer
Mirth known in dreams.
There was an orchard of old trees
Where cocksfoot, sainfoin, hay rolled to the waist
Waves of green foam.
Windfalls of apples where you please
Bid in the depths ripened to the taste,
Wrinkled as gnome.
And all the grass we pulled to show
Where apples lay we piled upon a cart,
Bearing my name.
We built our haystack, watched it grow,
As did the farmers (I was one at heart),
Though but a game.
Many more years upon the heap
I’ve plucked from Time to build my own life-stack,
Some day to end.
Yet in me still the boy will leap
As the long grass I pull, though now my back
Is loth to bend.
Mona’s Herald 10.9.63