we used to sit the rise and think of this.
drive the evening hunting the blue flax fields .
found and waded the poppies outside the dyke, then
worked the red thread.
danced the lane, brown boots through dust.
look at me.
i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes dream
in bad, often in yellow.
rape covers the land in places, my eyes smarting.
so once again we speak in crosses. i
think the hanky may be yours.