Too hot for spring, we walk in leaf shadow,
Damp-footed in the heavy dew.
Mud oozes, sea-green and buttercup-creeping,
Smelling of the sea and elderflowers.
Blackbirds listen for the murmur of worms,
Run-stop-running, leaf-tossing among the fronds,
Where fledglings waddle and squabble,
Seal-sleek and gannet-beaked.
Life sprawls as slow as the sun’s arc,
Fast as the deepening blue of evening,
And sings in all the colours of the rose.
Overhead, in silent, widening curves,
Bland yellow gaze fixed on the dapples,
The kite hangs with death in his eye.