When I was nearing nine and fancy-free,
Winning wealth of words and finding figures followed fixed rules,
I would leave the flint-cubed roadways
And tread the black paths of darkened peat and sand
Compacted to mud-free hardness by ogees
Of strip-iron skeleton soles of clogs - worn weekdays
By work-folk who had trod, or were treading,
Workwards or homewards these Bromilow Pads,
Flanked by daisy-filled fields, where fragile chains were linked
And buttercups, certain and true testers for butter-fanciers,
Shared the field and grew tall - dappling the white
And pink of golden-centred white-pink rings of daisies.
Sitting on our heels, moving desultorily we linked length of chain
And measured time taken to forge the chains
By feathery parachutes of dandelion clocks blown often
But scarcely true to time the time we sat -
Slitting stems of daisies, with small thumb-nails,
Until the clear sap streamed to our wollen-wrapped wrists.
Suitable ending to our daisy-buttercup-fielded walk and work
Were tall long-tailed black glistening horses, clattering afternoon
With steel-shod hooves that sparked
The cobbles as they were stable-led
To rustled silence, where they ate or stood in shadows.
And we - holding hands - on hard pavement or flint-road
Skipping, hopping, running, dancing - sedately walking -
Went home to tea.