Judith Beveridge
GRASS
GRASS
All morning reed-cutters swing
their arms near the river.
All morning I hear them balancing
among the perfection of those arcs.
A cold circle of sound picks up
the moon in the glint of each blade.
Each stroke comes in on the surest
wave; each blade reaches my heart
in regular rhythm. Who are these
men scything grass? All day, the moon
unknown to itself, floats like a bird;
and there's a sound too in the wind
of many imponderable things.
This river goes on. And all day,
I've listened, held between earth
and sky, wishing I too could take
my work into the cold; wishing
I too could find precision among
unweighable songs; here where
the river curves, here where the moon
dies, here where the wind eddies -
and here, where the men poise -
then scythe their absolute measures.
