POEM

 

In high spring the apples shine

onto the pathways leading along

the yellow seasides of Devon.

The cows lowing on the scorched grass.

Nearby a gunshot started a flock

of fieldfares and herons.

I know the name of every bird

but not their songs.*

Shine the apples green into the dewpond

a cloudspotter scrutinizes the bare sky

so blue   a peasant woman

-tired of laundry and peeling spuds-

is about to read poems of John Clare.

The lavender scent of the drizzle

 makes her sob like a child.

 

Between a silent pack of wolves on the hill

and a yellow moon over the shoreline 

Aphrodite smiles.

*John Betjeman