The Hand of Somerset

The meadow lies wide in the pale spring sun,

Men with barrows and spades move as one.

Earth breathes loam where the turf is pared,

Each sod a square of a farmer’s care.

Horse teams snort at the iron share,

Larks rise singing from fields laid bare.

In coats of tweed and caps pulled low,

They cut the green in a measured row.

The church bell marks the noonday rest,

Bread and cheese from a tin, the simplest, best.

Talk drifts easy of weather and yield,

Of kin long buried, of lads in the field.

Steam and motor creep into the shire,

But here, for now, it is sweat and mire.

A century turns, yet the turf still shows

The hand of Somerset, steady and slow.