FIELDS

Now wheatstalks massed turn yellow, ripening bounty,

down footpath mazes mystic music stringing,

portent of harvest-tide, in this, our county,

where now to hazel groves the birds come winging,

as stones glow, while the waters, shallow flowing,

their shell-strewn sandy courses are revealing,

the air sears hot, far hamlets dab-wise showing

on the horizon, contoured hills appealing…

The fields are tables, spread full brimming, golden…

Who laboured, let him reap, in peace enchanted.

By blood, sweat, calloused palms to Him beholden,

unto His folk, the Lord this land has granted.