Easter brings up for me that old <br />medieval hymn about <br />'now the green blade riseth, <br />out of the buried grain'. <br />And because its raining, <br />in Dublin, on this <br />Easter Day the grass continues green. <br />I noticed after a holiday in Crete, <br />amid the dry and parched land, <br />and reading Kazantzakis, <br />how green the fields were <br />as the plane circled over Lambay, <br />descending towards these green fields. <br /> <br />My father believed that bedroom walls <br />should have a green tint, if not all green <br />colored walls. It rested the eyes. <br />He like Spinoza was tired, I guess, <br />of grinding, as an Optician, the needed lens, <br />or reading prescriptions as a Chemist. <br />He needed green. Not as a green horn, <br />or green about the ears, or neophyte, <br />but on the eyes and what it did, <br />rested. <br /> And meadows were play stations, <br />to roll in and laughter thrill the air, <br />below, in the green meadow, in the summers <br />evening, when heated from ball games, <br />naked swam in the river at that <br />greened meadows edge. <br /> <br />'out of the buried grain, <br />now the green blade riseth'.<br /><br />Bernard Kennedy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-green-meadow/
