Summer, and the long grass is a snare drum.
\nThe air hums with jets.
\nDown at the end of the meadow,
\nfar from the radio’s terrible news,
\nwe cut the hay. All afternoon
\nits wave breaks before the tractor blade.
\nOver the hedge our neighbour travels his field
\nin a cloud of lime, drifting our land
\nwith a chance gift of sweetness.<\/p>\n
The child come running through the killed flowers,
\nhis hands a nest of quivering mouse,
\nits black eyes two sparks burning.
\nWe know it will die and ought to finish it off.
\nIt curls in agony big as itself
\nand the star goes out in its eye.
\nSummer in Europe, the fields hurt,
\nand the children kneel in long grass,
\nstaring at what we have crushed.<\/p>\n
Before day’s done the field lies bleeding,
\nthe dusk garden inhabited by the saved, voles,
\nfrogs, a nest of mice. The wrong that woke
\nfrom a rumour of pain won’t heal,
\nand we can’t face the newspapers.
\nAll night I dream the children dance in grass
\ntheir bones brittle as mouse ribs, the air
\nstammering with gunfire, my neighbour turned
\nstranger, wounding my land with stones.<\/p>\n
Notes…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Summer, and the long grass is a snare drum. The air hums with jets. Down at the end of the meadow, far from the radio’s terrible news, we cut the hay. All afternoon its wave breaks before the tractor blade. Over the hedge our neighbour travels his field in a cloud of lime, drifting our… Continue reading The Field Mouse<\/span>