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.