Hunsdon Mead

Wildflower wildfire, the mead half
cut, intoxicant breeze weaves the oat,
wheat, and Lennie’s alfalfa – hay grass
for giraffe, sheep and llama, speckled
suffragette sarongs in far off skirts, bell
and buttercup swirls for butterfly, moth and bee.
Still, a golden buzz glows at sunset,
half the hay here cut but not yet baled.

A tractor trail, assassin’s work. To walk
like this, is to walk with the fallen,
no wild flowers for the vase on the table.
This loss is hay, a dusky husk underfoot.
The sky pouring a horizon of bees pondering 
low golden, a white owl hunting tatami flatlands.

One light threads the needles, a sunbeam all the way
through to a hay-auburn, at King George fields,
and this mead-gate in front.