Innocent ground

Poem by Angela Arnold

How then to be anything but hard
smooth and stone faced
(practised, all set?)
when the sower comes;

anything but too deeply trodden,
churned – by the endless roil
of thoughts past, future, or never –
to make her welcome,
to offer him a fit place?

Too choked, even, with that easy
lushness of pre-conceptions.

This needs more than a space,
much more than room-for.

Much less: a know-nothingly
rich tilth, if the sower
is to be invited.

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