The Glow-Worm to the Mower

--Paul Muldoon

Since you’re unlikely to astound

yourself by having more to save

than hay, small wonder you’ve not found

why wave upon successive wave

would summon, far inland, sea-sounds

from a dull scythe or sickle.

When Juliana and you downed

tools to lunch on cheese and pickles

atop the triangular mound

with its outcrop of hairy vetch

for which your meadow is renowned

it must have felt like the home stretch

to a safe harbour. Black horehound

in the sheugh … The sun a sea-gong …

All afternoon you would expound

on how a mower must be strong

while Juliana, tightly wound

as ever, slowly went off-script,

the vetch-garland with which she’s crowned

having by dusk completely slipped,

the ties by which lovers are bound

also substantially weakened.

We mourn all those poor souls who’ve drowned

because our own inconstant beacons

have led to their running aground;

bear in mind it’s by, and from, you

(and not the other way around)

we glow-worms steer and take our cue.