(Harry Becker, Man Hedging, oil on canvas board, 1913–1928; Colchester and Ipswich Museums)
Today I think
Only with scents, —scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot’s seed,
And the square mustard field;
Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the roots of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;
The smoke’s smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.
It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of autumn mirth.
(From The Collected Poems of Edward Thomas, edited by R. George Thomas, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991 reprint)