I tramp on hay two oxen draw,
The ricks of summer slanting sway
On a sea-sloping field, and flaw
Bursts sunstarts on Saint Mary’s Bay.
Treading the timothy waist high
I pile the salt air up with scents
Grassy and hot-gratuity
For man and his yoked ruminants.
Beyond the sea wall where the weirs
Stake all on tides, Saint Mary limns
One tramp hull down, her stacks two smears,
And three terns shifting as the winds.
And I grown up in mows of grass
Hold up to heaven and salt air
A grace the heart will shrink to guess
When time has yoked it to despair.
Haying
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