It was by the late sunrise over fields newly turned by plough, That I saw the hired hand and

marvelled at his furrowed brow, Determination in his face with a strong grip that never slips, I would that it was my own fate to hold as steady to those lips. Shoulders broad carry the loads and never seem to slow or tire, Feet sturdy on the ground whether on tilled soil or in the mire, He moves with a lithe grace that is wasted on field or on fen, I wish he would turn my way so I may prize him above all men. Eyes as dark as the sods he trapeses under foot and cares not, His wild black hair falls across his neck strangled by every knot, The sweat on his brow runs as hot down his chiselled chest, A heart beats fast for the stamina of a man who needs little rest. A big black crow calls above me on the branches of the oak, It watches and covets what I long for though I never spoke, It looks to the fields and has a hunger that matches my own, It seeks food and I seek love and both from a seed are grown. His gaze has sparked within me lust and love in equal measures, I envy the carrion who flies his way the freedom of his feathers, If only I could voice my secret desire and taste the seed I crave, But alas it is an unrequited love I shall surely take to my grave. The pheasants lope about their meadows fearing nothing at all, Perhaps in ignorance sometimes bliss will often come to call, Yet their plump bodes will be served upon a platter for sure, A plumage they are unable to hide will bring fate to their door. My breath like the willo-the-wisp can be seen upon the breeze, And I swoon against the trunk and feel a kinship with the trees, For here I am seemingly rooted to the spot unable to move on, My arms reach out like the branches as he leaves and is gone. The acorns newly fallen will be gathered like the crops I feel, Taken up and tucked away and hidden so others cannot steal, I would that I could snatch him up and run away somewhere, A utopian world where love is free and no-one has a care. Squirrels chatter the red haired always winning against grey, I watch the victor disappear gone to feed the young in her dray, And I lye against the rough hewn bark of the trunk at my back, Thinking in defeatist ways of all the charms and qualities I lack. The earthy scents and the pungent hedges asail my thoughts, Filling my heart with joy and strength for the love it courts, But I will not open my eyes for surely in my mind at least, It is a banquet for my senses the visions of him are a feast. And when I wake I hear an ambling cart coming down the lane, The workers have packed up already and return home again, My heart groans as loud as the tired axle as I watch it come by, But the crow above me has returned and sounds a warning cry. My fingers grip the moss and slip trying to hold me as I see, There is my idol his arms around another who is not me, Laughing and kissing and despite all the promises he spoke, I have been deceived and it brings an end to vows he broke.

My tears are mingled with the ice cold rains and flow away, I lye motionless in the ditch lifeless in my grief display, The marigolds press against me and I know I should rally, A cold hard hand of fate chalks up another spurned love s tally. My hand writes later letters to try to find sense in his choices, I listen to my friends but I hear not and heed not their voices, And one day I hear her scarlet lips utter the words of regret, But I turn away and smile for it s better to forgive and forget.