As you plaited the harvest bow br You implicated the mellowed silence in you br In wheat that does not rust br But brightens as it tightens twist by twist br Into a knowable corona, br A throwaway love-knot of straw. br br Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks br And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks br Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent br Until your fingers moved somnambulant: br I tell and finger it like braille, br Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable, br br And if I spy into its golden loops br I see us walk between the railway slopes br Into an evening of long grass and midges, br Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges, br An auction notice on an outhouse wall— br You with a harvest bow in your lapel, br br Me with the fishing rod, already homesick br For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick br Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes br Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes br Nothing: that original townland br Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand. br br The end of art is peace br Could be the motto of this frail device br That I have pinned up on our deal dresser— br Like a drawn snare br Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn br Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.