Fragrant acres

The air was sweet with the scent of clover in these small 'unimproved' fields where the bedrock protrudes from the ground, rabbit droppings sprinkle the grass and foxgloves wave along the hedge line.


 Clover

These are fragrant acres where
Evening comes long hours late
And the still unmoving air
Cools the fevered hands of Fate.

Meadows where the afternoon
Hangs suspended in a flower
And the moments of our doom
Drift upon a weightless hour.

And we who thought that surely night
Would bring us triumph or defeat
Only find that stars are white
Clover at our naked feet.

Tennessee Williams