Hares In The Lower Meadow (Poetry)

Dizzy with the freshly-sprung flower-strung
greeness of a May morning
a trio of hares are leaping
at the edge of the lower meadow
their long ears cocked towards the sun

thin-legged as steeplechasers
they race through straggling tangles
of pink campion and ox eye daisies
knocking soft the early dandelion clocks
into releasing puffs of seed
as they speed past — all rustle
and half-seen blur — parting the grass
in their madcap game of ‘catch me
if you can’

traditionally fey and sporting light grey fur
they claim a place in magick’s lore
bound high into the air and down
the drum of frantic feet upon the ground
an old rhythm the earth knows well
they carve out a track
a symbol cut shallow into Spring’s lush carpet
an elongated curve that whips round
so-suddenly doubling back
as though synchronized to some invisible cue
sheer exuberance infects the spot
imbues it with a wild enchanted glow
every bloom and stem electrified
as the pulse travels and the grassheads twitch
leaves lengthen — tremble — seem to grow...

while half a field away
a blonde girl on a bicycle pedals up
the rolling slope oblivious to all except the effort
she keeps pace with a small dog that runs just ahead
his yapping faint — too distant for concern
these incidental passers-by a backdrop
to the action of the play
the hares continue to cavort
and a bird chirps shrill encouragement
from his perch nearby

posed against a curving skyline
a pink-faced cottage dozes unaware
of what the morning has on offer while
the painter’s eye is quick to reinvent the scene
in memory’s most surreal shades
unlikely such acidic green
the landscape seems to smile
at this appealing fantasy perspective
extravagant with tiny detail
framed by flowers.