In the sweet warmth of summertime
I wait to watch the men from the monk’s lair.
Low bushes and rushes hug the riverbank
And the fields are full of stools of willow
Sprouting dense, vigorous rods
That sway and clack in the breeze.
Here come the lay-brothers
Rowing across from the stone place,
Plain caps on their cropped heads.
Now their leather sandals clop along the path
Scattering black damselflies.
They chat in our guttural tongue
As up and down the rows they go
Cutting the ripe rods.
Keen eyes sort them,
Deft hands wield bodkins and rapping irons.
Stout fences are woven from the green willow.
Strong arms pull last year’s brown rods from the river,
Now bendy for baskets.
This is the life my lover chose. He seems content.
I silently blow him my kisses and slip away.
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Photo: Coppiced willow at National Trust Mottisfont, Hampshire. The willows at Bondig Bank on the Thames now grow wild.
