Late Blight
The field had spent years drinking
rain and pills. Received infusions, dialysis,
pesticide repair. Creeslough breathed again!
Its scarred mouth opening, sleep-heavy.
The field is threaded through for the new
harvest, overwintered. The lambs,
cloud-woollen, bounce over orange soil
to find a new water, frost-hardy.
Some were quick-footed. Some came back later,
others loved the image: their children, alive.
How the young love cappuccinos. The field
understood, knew they had to swim elsewhere,
and was content with its hair of soft grass.
The field, mid-Rosary, was appeared to.
Two boys in soil-brown dungarees. One
leading the other by the hand. Not wanting to disturb
the field’s braided hair, they skirt the edge.
They disappear into the cosy wood. ‘Fuck
my mouth’ it hears, and the field, in response,
hopes they stay. It pierces its ears with helleborine
and blue-eyed grass. The boys come out
of the trees. Crack of a can. Come back home
Said the field. The leaves of grass
are whistling. I’m wakened It says, reeling.