When war was over, we could run free,
over fields that were too open
in the years before.
We explored thorny woods,
Waded brooks lined with forget-me-not,
where before quick picnics
were the rule.

When summer came, we took to
further fields, beyond the churchyard
and through Tinney’s farm
where hay bales going dusty dry
rose to the roof
of a new dutch barn.

We ran between rows of peas in blossom,
down a wide hill, discovered a meadow
hedged around. Climbing rotten boards
of a wobbly stile, we stopped as each
stepped down, sniffing the air like
hounds catching the scent of a fox.
No scent of animal this, but honey.

The grass was tall, untroubled
no path went through its waving stems.
The honey we smelled was the scent of cowslips,
scattered thick, nodding heavy heads
of yellow flowers I think of now
as echo of constellations.

We breathed deep, we lived
in fantasy. Telling each other we were
intoxicated, mesmerized, we walked
the slope of meadow to where a dark pond
sank its water among the nodding peggles.
One lone tree stood by the pond,
no rushes graced the water’s edge.
We lay by the pond, heads cloaked
by the tall grasses, and everyone of us
magicked by thick hairy stems,
bowing yellow flowers
and that scent, that scent.

Though we went to Peggle Meadow
many times that summer,
the magic was never repeated.
Peggles remained in memory,
war dimmed.

December 2003