Out of events we created for the BM125 project, grew poems that we are sharing here. This is the second half of a poem that began in “A Field rustles…”
When you visit Arbor Low or Minning Low or walk along an old road, look at the fields around you as well as at the ancient monuments themselves. Our haymeadows hold their own stories
Poems are often best read out loud, so pause and share this with a friend. or if you are on your own, speak it to the wind and the flowers themselves
The rhythm of a scythe echoes across centuries
They walked where we walk,
Those old farmers on a summer day,
The slice and hiss of a blade and
The whetstone that hones the edge,
Finding shade under these same trees,
Cutting the waving grass from the same sward.
Harebell and cranesbill
Selfheal and tormentil,
Scabious and burnet,
The names are an enchantment
A spell for a meadow,
Whispered on a dusty wind
Colour, scent, pollen and promise,
Foxtail, cocksfoot,
Fescue, vernal and bent,
The rooted and the free,
Meadow brown and large white,
Ringlet and tortoiseshell,
Prayers blown between earth and sky.
Part 3 follows