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'S
usan
,
I
respect
;
because
she
sits
stitching
.
She
sews
under
a
quiet
lamp
in
a
house
where
the
corn
sighs
close
to
the
window
and
gives
me
safety
.
For
I
am
the
weakest
,
the
youngest
of
them
all
.
I
am
a
child
looking
at
his
feet
and
the
little
runnels
that
the
stream
has
made
in
the
gravel
.
That
is
a
snail
,
I
say
;
that
is
a
leaf
.
I
delight
in
the
snails
;
I
delight
in
the
leaf
,
I
am
always
the
youngest
,
the
most
innocent
,
the
most
trustful
.
You
are
all
protected
.
I
am
naked
.
When
the
waitress
with
the
plaited
wreaths
of
hair
swings
past
,
she
deals
you
your
apricots
and
custard
unhesitatingly
,
like
a
sister
.
You
are
her
brothers
.
But
when
I
get
up
,
brushing
the
crumbs
from
my
waistcoat
,
I
slip
too
large
a
tip
,
a
shilling
,
under
the
edge
of
my
plate
,
so
that
she
may
not
find
it
till
I
am
gone
,
and
her
scorn
,
as
she
picks
it
up
with
laughter
,
may
not
strike
on
me
till
I
am
past
the
swing-doors
.
'
'N
ow
the
wind
lifts
the
blind
,
'
said
Susan
,
'
jars
,
bowls
,
matting
and
the
shabby
arm-chair
with
the
hole
in
it
are
now
become
distinct
.
The
usual
faded
ribbons
sprinkle
the
wallpaper
.
The
bird
chorus
is
over
,
only
one
bird
now
sings
close
to
the
bedroom
window
.
I
will
pull
on
my
stockings
and
go
quietly
past
the
bedroom
doors
,
and
down
through
the
kitchen
,
out
through
the
garden
past
the
greenhouse
into
the
field
.
It
is
still
early
morning
.
The
mist
is
on
the
marshes
.
The
day
is
stark
and
stiff
as
a
linen
shroud
.
But
it
will
soften
;
it
will
warm
.
At
this
hour
,
this
still
early
hour
,
I
think
I
am
the
field
,
I
am
the
barn
,
I
am
the
trees
;
mine
are
the
flocks
of
birds
,
and
this
young
hare
who
leaps
,
at
the
last
moment
when
I
step
almost
on
him
.
Mine
is
the
heron
that
stretches
its
vast
wings
lazily
;
and
the
cow
that
creaks
as
it
pushes
one
foot
before
another
munching
;
and
the
wild
,
swooping
swallow
;
and
the
faint
red
in
the
sky
,
and
the
green
when
the
red
fades
;
the
silence
and
the
bell
;
the
call
of
the
man
fetching
cart-horses
from
the
fields
--
all
are
mine
.
'
I
can
not
be
divided
,
or
kept
apart
.
I
was
sent
to
school
;
I
was
sent
to
Switzerland
to
finish
my
education
.
I
hate
linoleum
;
I
hate
fir
trees
and
mountains
.
Let
me
now
fling
myself
on
this
flat
ground
under
a
pale
sky
where
the
clouds
pace
slowly
.
The
cart
grows
gradually
larger
as
it
comes
along
the
road
.
The
sheep
gather
in
the
middle
of
the
field
.
The
birds
gather
in
the
middle
of
the
road
--
they
need
not
fly
yet
.
The
wood
smoke
rises
.
The
starkness
of
the
dawn
is
going
out
of
it
.
Now
the
day
stirs
.
Colour
returns
.
The
day
waves
yellow
with
all
its
crops
.
The
earth
hangs
heavy
beneath
me
.
'
But
who
am
I
,
who
lean
on
this
gate
and
watch
my
setter
nose
in
a
circle
?
I
think
sometimes
(
I
am
not
twenty
yet
)
I
am
not
a
woman
,
but
the
light
that
falls
on
this
gate
,
on
this
ground
.
I
am
the
seasons
,
I
think
sometimes
,
January
,
May
,
November
;
the
mud
,
the
mist
,
the
dawn
.
I
can
not
be
tossed
about
,
or
float
gently
,
or
mix
with
other
people
.
Yet
now
,
leaning
here
till
the
gate
prints
my
arm
,
I
feel
the
weight
that
has
formed
itself
in
my
side
.
Something
has
formed
,
at
school
,
in
Switzerland
,
some
hard
thing
.
Not
sighs
and
laughter
,
not
circling
and
ingenious
phrases
;
not
Rhoda
's
strange
communications
when
she
looks
past
us
,
over
our
shoulders
;
nor
Jinny
's
pirouetting
,
all
of
a
piece
,
limbs
and
body
.
What
I
give
is
fell
.
I
can
not
float
gently
,
mixing
with
other
people
.
I
like
best
the
stare
of
shepherds
met
in
the
road
;
the
stare
of
gipsy
women
beside
a
cart
in
a
ditch
suckling
their
children
as
I
shall
suckle
my
children
.
For
soon
in
the
hot
midday
when
the
bees
hum
round
the
hollyhocks
my
lover
will
come
.
He
will
stand
under
the
cedar
tree
.
To
his
one
word
I
shall
answer
my
one
word
.
What
has
formed
in
me
I
shall
give
him
.
I
shall
have
children
;
I
shall
have
maids
in
aprons
;
men
with
pitchforks
;
a
kitchen
where
they
bring
the
ailing
lambs
to
warm
in
baskets
,
where
the
hams
hang
and
the
onions
glisten
.
I
shall
be
like
my
mother
,
silent
in
a
blue
apron
locking
up
the
cupboards
.
'N
ow
I
am
hungry
.
I
will
call
my
setter
.
I
think
of
crusts
and
bread
and
butter
and
white
plates
in
a
sunny
room
.
I
will
go
back
across
the
fields
.
I
will
walk
along
this
grass
path
with
strong
,
even
strides
,
now
swerving
to
avoid
the
puddle
,
now
leaping
lightly
to
a
clump
.
Beads
of
wet
form
on
my
rough
skirt
;
my
shoes
become
supple
and
dark
.
The
stiffness
has
gone
from
the
day
;
it
is
shaded
with
grey
,
green
and
umber
.
The
birds
no
longer
settle
on
the
high
road
.
'
I
return
,
like
a
cat
or
fox
returning
,
whose
fur
is
grey
with
rime
,
whose
pads
are
hardened
by
the
coarse
earth
.
I
push
through
the
cabbages
,
making
their
leaves
squeak
and
their
drops
spill
.
I
sit
waiting
for
my
father
's
footsteps
as
he
shuffles
down
the
passage
pinching
some
herb
between
his
fingers
.
I
pour
out
cup
after
cup
while
the
unopened
flowers
hold
themselves
erect
on
the
table
among
the
pots
of
jam
,
the
loaves
and
the
butter
.
We
are
silent
.
'
I
go
then
to
the
cupboard
,
and
take
the
damp
bags
of
rich
sultanas
;
I
lift
the
heavy
flour
on
to
the
clean
scrubbed
kitchen
table
.
I
knead
;
I
stretch
;
I
pull
,
plunging
my
hands
in
the
warm
inwards
of
the
dough
.
I
let
the
cold
water
stream
fanwise
through
my
fingers
.
The
fire
roars
;
the
flies
buzz
in
a
circle
.
All
my
currants
and
rices
,
the
silver
bags
and
the
blue
bags
,
are
locked
again
in
the
cupboard
.
