Summery poem


The year the quince swelled, swifts dipped

over our city garden,

and the sky opened up for us all -

we saw so clearly the children

and felt in our hearts the child’s clear song

bones lengthening, heads full of light

as berries glistened, rhubarb turned

to the sun, pinkening

and little sandals lost long ago were warm.

Let us go back to the moors,

deep combes where larks ring up their truth

and scatter ribboned notes that fall

like strands of soft-brushed hair,

where the sessile oaks and the standing

stones and hanging trout know all

that we forget,

far from the wilderness, wide skies,

till the swifts reclaim us.


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