Humans in the hedge

There are humans in the hedge, I saw them waiting …
Some standing to attention, others listing, rootless, but still.
They are there every-day, holding up the battered branches
After the flail.
Waiting for the good times, patiently supporting the leaf-wall,
The shield bugs, the butterfly eggs, the odd brave thrush.
Holding their breath for compassion to dawn,
No longer to pen in the juicy meat feast and the unwise lamb;
Waiting for the fields to wave and sigh with flowers,
To stand with pollen coats and while away the hours;
Every year they are inside watching new plants under even showers;
Where outside the barn, the rust picks holes in the redundant plough.

Slowly the humans in the hedge disappear under coats of green
Carrying their heavy burden unseen.
The thicket of their souls drenched with life hidden in the years
Of weed-killed fallow, now burgeoning, filling the ears
Of the golden crop sheltered by the wayward vines,
Blood-spotted by the poppy’s erratic lines …
And above all the Lark in numbers fills the sky with noise
With the Linnet and the Charm tinkling in their choice
Of Elderberry and Guelder.
And beneath rooted in place the humans fill the space
Surging with sap … but silhouettes in winter
As they stand and face the biting wind
Watching the Willow’s cheat and change places.