Sara Butler


This poem appears in The Listening Walk along with three others. I wrote it some years ago when I was living a rather rural life in Norfolk.


First time I see
I think he’s an angel
up on the back of a trailer,
hair like barley straw
evening sun coming low
through the trees
giving him a halo.

I squint up at him
from the barn floor
and him, he’s like a
swinging his body from
side to side,
lifting the bales
one by one
one by one
pitching them down
to the men below.

This rhythm,
he says,
it gets a hold of you
and it stays.

Me, I think
I’d like a bit of that
rhythm too.


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