hay swain
two sit entwining hay, golden flax spinning into rope between their fingers,
the quietus of an autumns day settling like the lord’s mantle on their shoulders.
and she sings a hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny nay
her voice like daisies in spring.
and he replies a hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny yea
and she smiles underneath her frown,
as if she could cleave the cords they weaved together.
he places a dandelion behind her right ear,
as he whispers in her left a hey nonny nonny yea.
and under the greenwood tree they lay
as they too have forgotten the passing of the day.
