LATE-SUMMER LINCOLNSHIRE 

The reaper moves mechanically-- a storm 

Of husky dust follows its wake, and leaves 

But nothing of the proud crops' rippling form 

Which once had greeted me in golden waves. 



Dunuded fields lie dun or black, all edged 

With stubble or skin-stunning nettle, and meet 

A pot-holed lane winding by, hawthorn-hedged, 

A haven for the wild late-summer fruit. 



The mellow walls of White Owl Barn stand lapped 

By a seeming ocean, black-brown and flat, 

The barn a boat becalmed but not abandoned; 

Two owls keep watch--- the captain and his mate. 



But one field lies unploughed: there, sunflowers, tall 

And ranked, turn broad adoring clock-faces 

To their namesake, each of them a sundial 

On a giant stalk following the hours. 



So plough, lane, clouds, barn, fields, gates, owls, hedge, sun 

Combine to make a country-scene that here 

Has timeless harmony; aspects of one 

Late-summer in the depth of Lincolnshire.


~ Stanley MM II ~

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