Harvest

I fell down in a faint by the cornfield
where the men were carrying a girl
between them, sheafbright
apple parings in her hair

They were singing, the hop men,
bringers of barley and
all the hedge cottonbeards
leaned forwards in a thirst

They called her 'queen',
her gold head tilted once
towards the fields, and once
in my direction.

When I woke, there were clouds
the girl was scattered to light
Like broken honeycomb in my mouth
Or a sun on the horizon.