Constable’s Garden

was the only one I saw today;

turning a page the field straightened

until a farmhouse came into view

its hedges low and trimmed with a neatness

that spoke of village life in a painter’s gaze.

I found the red speck, a distant worker’s

jacket, his frame leaning on a spade, pensive

even to my reading. The red spark

drew me out of the long indoors day

to sniff the hay and grab a hoe;

this willing wordsmith learns to plough

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

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