Buffalo

The genius of a child can repair
The ruin that dark love has made
So among children be no grief afraid
Of the taloned dove that dreams no delicate prayer.

A furrow is the string by which
The Destinies draw up the coach of fate
O furrowed field, who shall ditch
Dawn-headlands and leave no open gate.

For E.S.

You sat on a grey evening ditch
When the August dusk was full of stooks.

From my people I went
To the life hinted
In primrose and bluebell tent
In the poem sung or printed.