Only now as I begin to set

Do I feel again the meadow

Athough it's where

I've always placed

My formula first person stories-

True and false.

Among its bloatings of frogs

Its lightnings of sticklebacks

Its orgies of conkers,

I have dog-rolled

In a cow dung of love.

The meadow -

Whose beauty is of bog mud

Toe oozing in boots,

Of grubby handed boyhood sharings,

A criminality of penny bangers,

A wing swoop of owl

In a moon frost of tiny sufferings.

I'll leave it there

Since despite all insight and experience

We all go somewhere innocent to love

If love it is or has at least

The legs to run and play.

Just let me hold you

Where the cattle cross the stream

And kiss you where the iris blaze their summer

Whoever you are

Wherever now the meadow.