Rye Fields & Snowdrifts Poem by Mark Heathcote

She has all the whispers of a morning,
clothed in fog: wet with drenchings of fallen dew.
Whilst my perspiring body lisp's on a gallows tree.
Sometimes-above sometimes-below...she…

I am her Eden's fantasy; she says—O' I'll probe,
I'll bite when rye fields glow all around me.
When apple blossom orchards,
descend like snowdrifts, deeply to enfold me.

In his arms in his rye fields and snowdrifts,
there surely you'll also find me.
Cold to all other suitors, now till eternity.