/0/15961/coverbig.jpg?v=3eda02bda6d4046bf28053f39e3def0e)
I have looked on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is in bloom-this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village.
I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a
COPYRIGHT(©) 2022