Summer 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 3 Poetry |

Hearts

Woken, perhaps when the baby cried, sometimes I mowed the grass before dawn: around me a damp dark smell of fields where lamps like planets moved on the rim and buckets and gates sang with them. The night seemed too timid to come alive—   then almost with a shout began, with you throwing slops onto the bank of nettles where the shrews and tits now dinned and rejoiced. I'd see your lamp like a flower quaver and bloom as you pumped at the window, breathing life into a sun as the moon paled slowly. I'd meet you when we milked:   you'd grumble at a clumsy cow made stupid by walking concrete, or about the price I'd paid for it six months before—an angry thought that crossed our love made feeble by debt.   In the twilight of the aftemoons I'd watch you scrub the eggs and rinse your hands to the dirt kept on your wrists and fill the lamps. No fuel was spilled from your heart. I dozed as the moon brightened and, far-off, neighbors swung lights on the land.

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Beasts

By Glyn Hughes

Woken, perhaps when the baby cried, sometimes I mowed the grass before dawn: around me a damp dark smell of fields where lamps like planets moved on the rim and […]

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