The Clover

There the green drunkenness leads us, That we tumble through clover fields, Brightly painted with shadows and sun; The bees are in riot on lazy afternoons, Heavy with their business of love, Above fragrant mouths, kissing the laughs from the stalks. But we linger, beneath the clamoring sky, Listening to the murmuring of flowers, Soft hearts feeding on the rich, slow stillness, And I know we were born, not to stumble, But to dance — bare-footed — on soft grass.

• Sidney Keyes