| And there I was in the middle of a field, | |
| The furrows once called "scores' still with their gloss, | |
| The tractor with its hoisted plough just gone | |
| Snarling at an unexpected speed | |
| Out on the road. Last of the jobs, | 5 |
| The windings had been ploughed, furrows turned | |
| Three ply or four round each of the four sides | |
| Of the breathing land, to mark it off | |
| And out. Within that boundary now | |
| Step the fleshy earth and follow | 10 |
| The long healed footprints of one who arrived | |
| From nowhere, unfamiliar and de-mobbed, | |
| In buttoned khaki and buffed army boots, | |
| Bruising the turned-up acres of our back field | |
| To stumble from the windings' magic ring | 15 |
| And take me by a hand to lead me back | |
| Through the same old gate into the yard | |
| Where everyone has suddenly appeared, | |
| All standing waiting. | |