My Mother Considers Her Callows Farm From a parlour window I see sunlight creeping across the fields, and how some nights streams spar with moonbeams – but now I’ve slopped the shallows enough for sense, wearied of the skylark rising with dawn or against the falling dark. This land never was certain of itself, nor kind to shoe leather, no woolpack and no feather bed. Neither did it pretend the deed of adding a scrap or screed of comfort to...
