Hardy in the Wood


It’s been so long,
And even now it’s kind of chilly in the shade,
But in the distance, cuckoo song
Still penetrates the sleeping glade,
And the sunlight as it splinters
Through the tea-strainer of leaves
Has drawn me back to secret corners
Under springtime’s aching trees.
The bluebells grow and spread their flanks
Into a patchwork counterpane.
I sit, knees up, the mildew rising,
Born from months of slanted rain.
But I’m a poet, wearing striped gloves
And a tench coat, as I should,
And my intellectual glasses,
Reading Hardy, in the wood.

18 responses to “Hardy in the Wood

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