Most advice for a heavy heart involves doing something: talking it through, going for a walk, fixing the problem. "Earthed" suggests the opposite, and does it in thirteen words. Its speaker simply lies down, and by lying on the ground for a long time makes the heart light. The central idea is that rest is not an escape from the world but a return to it. Contact with the earth is the cure, and the poem treats it as a plain, almost practical remedy.
The title carries much of the meaning. To be "earthed" is, in British usage, to have an electrical circuit safely connected to the ground, so that a dangerous excess of charge drains away. Read that way, the heart is an overloaded wire and the body flat on the soil is the conductor that discharges it. The word also suggests being buried, or being grounded in the everyday sense of steady and down to earth. The poem never explains any of these, but the title lets them hum behind the lines. Judging by that single word, the speaker's lightness is not a lifting away from the earth. It comes from giving weight over to it.
The first couplet is built around a pleasing paradox. "Lying long" is slow, and the words themselves stretch out, with the long vowel in "long" followed by the repeated "i" sound of "lying," "I," "my," and "light." That chain of sounds suggests the lightness before the word arrives. The line break also holds "I make" in the air for a moment, so that "make" first sounds like creation, as if the speaker were building something, before "my heart light" completes the thought. "Light" works two ways here. It means the opposite of heavy, and it also faintly means bright. The speaker's agency matters too. The heart does not simply become light; "I make" it so, though the only labour involved is stillness.
The second couplet changes the grammar. The first has an active verb, while "the ground my antidote / to bed" has none. The missing "is" turns the sentence into an equation, as though the speaker were pointing at something already true. Then the line break creates a small puzzle. "Antidote" is a word for poison, so the thing being countered is "bed." Perhaps the poem means the sleepless, worrying hours spent in a mattress-and-pillow world, where the heart stays heavy. Perhaps "to bed" is also the ordinary phrase "going to bed," so that the ground replaces the usual end to the day. And "bed" has other meanings, such as a garden bed or a riverbed, so that the ground may turn out to be a bed of its own, a better one. The poem lets all of these possibilities stand.
The form supports this plainness. There is no punctuation, no capital letter except the pronoun "I," and no rhyme. The lines are very short, about five, three, six and two syllables, so the poem shrinks as it goes, as if the speaker were settling down. The sounds follow the same path. The first couplet ends on "light," a quick, airy word closed by a soft "t." The poem ends on "bed," a low, final syllable that closes with a firm "d," much like "ground" and "antidote" before it. The poem thus moves from the idea of lightness to the thud of the body coming to rest, and the contrast shows how lightness and weight depend on each other.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it holds without announcing it. It names no landscape, season or sorrow, and it never says the word "nature." There is only a person, the ground and a heart that gets lighter. Its compression may remind a reader of haiku, though it follows no fixed syllable count. For a student, it shows how a title can complete a poem, how a line break can split a word into two meanings, and how a missing verb can sound like certainty. It also offers a small, memorable thought: sometimes the best way to lighten a burden is to stop holding yourself up.