Hunsdon Mead

Wildflower wildfire, the mead half

cut, intoxicant breeze weaves the oat,

wheat, and Lennie’s alfalfa – hay grass

for giraffe, sheep and llama, speckled

suffragette sarongs in far off skirts, bell

and buttercup swirls for butterfly, moth and bee.

Still, a golden buzz glows at sunset,

half the hay here cut but not yet baled.

 

A tractor trail, assassin’s work. To walk

like this is to walk with the fallen,

no wild flowers for the vase on the table.

This loss is hay, a dusky husk underfoot.

The sky pouring a horizon of bees pondering  

low golden, a white owl hunting tatami flatlands.

One light threads the needles, a sunbeam all the way

through to a hay-auburn, at King George fields

and this mead-gate in front.