Walking this field path in high summer, everything seems to lean in close and offer up its sweetness. Blossoming branches—perhaps blackthorn, with their dark little eyes—fill the air with a garden-like fragrance wherever they appear. The meadow grass lies freshly cut, and a wild rose sprawls right across the way, heavy with white blooms. Under the twittering heat, cut grass bleaches into hay and gives off a smell so good it fools a bee, who hovers in puzzled delight, searching for flowers that aren’t there. Even someone just passing by can’t resist bending down to snap off a stalk and hold it to their face. There’s no grand statement here, just a quiet, glad immersion in the ordinary riches of a walk—the feel of a warm day, the humble thrill of a scent, the way nature’s small confusions can feel like a kind of welcome.
Field Path — Summary
The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers--the grass that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And passer-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.