ANOTHER seasonal piece, this time from the pen of Edward Thomas, cut off in his creative prime at the battle of Arras in 1917. The poem was written in 1915.

DIGGING

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.