at middle‑field gate in february - gerald finzi lyrics
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the bars are thick with drops that show
as they gather themselves from the fog
like silver b*ttons ranged in a row
and as evenly sp*ced as if measured, although
they fall at the feeblest jog
they load the leafless hedge hard by
and the blades of last year’s grass
while the fallow ploughland turned up nigh
in raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie
too clogging for feet to pass
how dry it was on a farback day
when straws hung the hedge and around
when amid the sheaves in amorous play
in curtained bonnets and light array
bloomеd a bevy now underground!
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