For centuries, the turf cutter has come every night.
Cautiously, with boards
tied to his feet, leaning on an immense
spade he squelches across the wet earth. With every step
he sucks his greasy-sounding, flat wooden foot
from the grass.
Weipoort night.
Behind the farm the high water surface
in front of the building every flow is lower, even the water
level is raised by the visitor; he forces
the ditch into a course and lets the surface rise.
He lets the water well up. Fish beat
their tails out of their tracksuits and ants
snorkel round with flippers. A curlew
startles in its sleep, flies up and begins
to sing its praises.
Night in Weipoort
and behind the hedgerows and banks we hope
the turf cutter will call at our door, raise us
from our lowly dreams and thoughts
will murder our sleep, let the white waifs
dance about the field, control and
particularise our life, lay down the law
on our proud soil to beat the water out.
