This is the path to the stile

And this is where I would stand —

The place is all thick with weeds.

I could see the line of her back and the flash of her hair

As she came from the fields at a call,

And then ten minutes wasted, all quiet

But the horse in the open air clanking his feet

Until the fire was roaring and the work began,

And the clattering and dancing.

I could see by her shoulders how her breath shifted

In the burst of heat, and the wide gesture of her free arm

As she lifted the weight and clung

Around the hoof. The hammer notes were flying

All urgent with fire and speed, and precise

With a finicky catch at the end —

But the noise I could not hear was the shock of air

Crashing into her lungs, the depth

Of the gasp as she turned with a ready hand

As the heat from the fire drew up the chimney,

The flame pressing, brushing out the last thread,

Constantly revising itself upwards to a pure line.

I closed my eyes, not to see the rider as he left.

When I opened them again the sheep were inching forward,

A flock of starlings had darkened the sky.