MEADOW GRASSES 91 



With the lilac flower of the scabious lay 

 the incarnadine head of the poppy 

 tokening sleep that now had claimed its 

 own. Meadow crane's-bill, which had over- 

 topped the grasses with the wine-dark sorrel 

 and prickly thistle, the vetch, and the blue 

 speedwell from the highest to the lowest 

 all brought low by the skirring knives. 



Years ago in an old village the mowers 

 went down into the meadow with their 

 curved scythes, and throughout the long 

 summer day they swung their ancient 

 implements. Every now and then they 

 paused to whet the sap-blurred blades with 

 a stone carried in their belts. Tu-whet, 

 tu-whaat holding the symbol of olden times 

 near the point: it was the extreme edge 

 of the curve that required such constant 

 sharpening. Their hats were bleached by 

 the showers and the sunshine I do not 

 recollect seeing a new one but it may 

 have been a faulty impression of childhood. 

 It was thirsty work wielding the scythe 



