Counting

In the valley

away from the copse,

the spinney, the wood

the forest,

far from the wolf,

and the rare bold fox.

a man with his rood

his dog, his pipe,

is counting.

 

Yan, Tyan, Tethera,

at the shearing time,

the blades click and clack

for three black sheep

and three bags fine.

 

You count methera,

as we ofters swive,

the seed slick and quick

give four babes dead

and four alive.

 

I count pimp

at the ale house door

the pumps pull and push,

for five strong beers

and five beers more.

 

Sethera

           lucky, lucky six:

             the young boy gathers

               the kindling sticks.

 

Dethera

           we are lately seven,

             one child more

              and we have heaven.

Hovera

            the hour may be eight,

                I send the boy

                 to close the gate

Lovera

          the wool-filled sacks they number nine

              what mite we make

                   is never mine.

 

We count, we count all the days of our lives,

we count the kisses we gave to our wives,

we count the ripples as the kingfisher dives,

we count the cuts from words like knives.