MEADOW GRASSES 89 



spiders were everywhere in the long grass, 

 searching for fly or insect in their blood 

 lust. Another kind of spider had erected 

 a net-like web between the stalks, with a 

 round silky tunnel in the middle, in which 

 he crouched among the skins of beetles, 

 glowing a dull bronzy green in the sun; 

 the torn wings of a red admiral butterfly 

 never again to pass with colour-dusty sails 

 above the blue scabious flowers; all the 

 tragic remainder of his catch scattered like 

 jetsam at the sea's marge. The larks still 

 sang into the sunshine. It was the time of 

 year, just past the fullness of young summer, 

 when the song of visitant birds was over 

 and the insect hum had begun its shimmering 

 undertone. 



The mowing machine, drawn by the 

 glossy-coated horses, moved down one side 

 of the field. One of the mowers sat on the 

 iron seat and drove the pair; his mate 

 walked alongside and scooped the cut 

 grasses from the knives with a rake, The 



