The bald glasshouses stretch here for miles.

For miles air-vents open like wings.

This is the land of reflections, of heat

flagging from.mirror to mirror. Here cloches

force on the fruit by weeks, while pulses

of light run down the chain of glasshouses

and blind the visitors this Good Friday.

The daffodil pickers are spring-white.

Their neat heads in a fuzz of sun

stoop to the buds, make leafless

bunches of ten for Easter.

A white thumb touches the peat

but makes no print. This is the soil-less

Eden of glasshouses, heat-stunned.