Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
Below the drystone wall, the hay
is near to cutting. A tablecloth, lightly sprung,
undulates between crumb-strewn plates,
empty cans, and the apples you brought
but we didn’t eat.
Across the fields a tractor’s puttering . . .
lying by your shadow, feeling
grass scratching on my skin;
before a school bell rings
and a triple-seven comes home;
Yet the grass is trembling silently
I am crying
and you are crying:
how very close,
the sense of an ending.