Kissing Gate Poem by John Rickell

We left the dreaming wood
and its shaded contemplation,
took to the oat-field
stubble under foot snapping,
wild flowers struggling back
mustard from years ago a daisy
here and there, thistles blue
and handsome docks beside
the nettle patch, to cool the sting.
Mole hills beside the woodland edge
where rotting autumn leaves bring
out the worms when rains return.

How hot the October sun today,
how cold the eastern wind
reminding me of winter afternoons
when I shall no longer tramp
these sods to seek the pimpernel.

Across the stubble, green tracks
stand out where once the combine
cast the straw, grassy rows
Jack grazing for his stomach's sake.
He knows what's best, I do not wait
he'll come when he is done,
black, articulate, tail streaming
then, still to sense the air,
soon, asking for a biscuit.

The wind is getting up again
time to go back through the wood,
the kissing gate, where once we leaned
Goodbye crow and flapping pigeon
goodbye see you in the morning.