Mowing the Field, I Spare Convolvulus,
For Harry, August, 1995

Not only for those lovely other names,
Bindweed and morning glory, but the fact
Of its appearance yearly in the same
Small plot of dry hardscrabble, and its tact,
As shown by a refusal to expand,
So far, beyond its present small domain,
To cultivated corners of my land,
Pleasant white bells and wildly looping green
Stems choking other growth. Attar of rose
Is finer than this green scent, and lilies
Bloom lovelier but, dust filling my nose,
Sweat stinging my eyes, I'm charmed, quietly.
Why mourning? Glory, spreading like a weed,
Covers the hills, kills thought, scatters its seed.

 

Poems by Jamie Irons: