A peasant idyll

Bruce Dawe

Love, like trouble, steps out of the thick forest
and  stands in our presence, gentle and trembling.

We were strolling along, our axe on our shoulder,
Grumbling the rough lyrics of peasantry,
The blade of the sun slicing the boughs,
The song of the birds like the song of small thieves
Who have absconded from the counting-house
To tally henceforth only leaves.

In our nostrils the broth of the air
Was delightful, murmuring of home,
When there, in a sudden clearing, on the soft grass,
You stood, your eyes sweet as spring water,
The birds fallen silent, the air still, only the sunlight
Bothering us with its wry syllables.