Scarecrows.

We are two scarecrows: rags and string;
what the rain softens the wind picks clean.

We are two scarecrows: sticks and straw;
crows fly out from underneath our jackets.

We are two scarecrows: nails and wire;
each day drowning as the corn grows higher.

We are two scarecrows: sacks and hay;
nodding toward eternity, we tip toward clay.

Yellow Hair

"NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair."

These lines from “For Anne Gregory “ by Yeats sometimes come into my head. How well he states the dilemma.
One afternoon, a number of years ago, I was staring absently out the window when I caught sight of the back of a girl passing. It was a particular combination of low sun and exceedingly long hair that produced the most breathtaking effect. Her hair shone. It gave me a poem which is included in Turn Your Head (Dedalus Press):
Wish

On days like this trees shine,
leaves spill light,
the garden is a flood,
rooftops are full-flowing weirs.
I am swept along.

You, who collects sunlight
on the spatulas of your fingers
- it clings to you like pollen -
curl a hand upward
to loosen out your hair.

Oh, I wish my eyes were barrels.

As it happens, I knew her and now when I remember her, I invariably remember her golden, gleaming hair.