IN THE HAYFIELD 135 



JUNE 

 II 



IN THE HAYFIELD 



'T ^7"HAT a crop of hay,' says the townsman 

 VV wading through the grass that reaches 

 his waist and holds his feet with a clutch like that 

 of water. Rabbits are lost in it, but if you make 

 the right call, that of a fellow rabbit squeaking, 

 they stand bolt upright and so just manage to 

 show you a bright eye peering through the grass. 

 The kestrel poises overhead, then passes on, 

 knowing the futility of searching for the sign of 

 a vole moving under that thick jungle. Foam of 

 marguerites and hedge parsley leaps up at the 

 pink-and-white dog roses, so that the very bushes 

 seem about to be overwhelmed in the tide of grass. 

 It is green and lush under the damp purple of the 

 clouds that some say have spoilt this June day, 

 and it does not seem as though any agricultural 

 art could induce another blade to grow in such a 

 concourse. 



But the farmer shakes his head and says that the 

 grass has not half grown. He overlooks the 



