By Annabelle Fuller
April: the rooms are lit
By a thin slip of moon,
Sliver-disc fringed by the
Filminess of the mist,
A little bit blued. New
Lambs test their legs, try prove
The sinews true to a
Nearby ewe. The wet of
The earth hasn’t yet welled
Through, and the fresh bled mess
Of vegetable cords that
Grow just over the wall
Stay blurred by the dirt while
The sheep trim down the turf.
The turnip root, the split
Pink of it, slick as a
Slit in the skin, quick-springed
Like a twitching fist, the
Livid gleam, the girth, is
Still. The purple steep of
The bristling heath lies up
On the hill; the smell of
Foxglove bells seeps in. The
Land falls out, wide like a
Striking arm, low to high
Like the rise of the rye.
From farm to farm, the dawn
Slides outward from the sky
And the cocks give cry. The
Stare of the bantam’s eye;
Its cherry comb; the claws
That rake the floor for flies;
Slack wattles; beaks of bone.
I can feel the creep of
The seeds, the spent heifer’s
Milk held down by cream, the
Keens of the sheep. The way
Wool seems to keep being
Seized by fence and hedge, peeled
Off from the flock to be
Bleached by the sun’s neat beams.
The leaning stalk of the
Crop, the angle just off;
The jutting hock of a
Pig’s back leg; a blow to
The head. Two preying birds
Dip-dive and circle, furl
Their feathers or shed, go
Shelter an egg. Lent ends
Late, lasts long; England leaves
Her fast and stands as the
Fields turn fat, fill up
With foods that cannot come
Too soon. Now, at last, the
End of the recent past -
The pastures green, the lambs’
Weak knees. The giving way,
The staying in place. May:
ANNABELLE FULLER reads Classics and English at Magdalen. She is not currently entertaining.
Art by Maddy Clegg