POEM

 

In high spring the apples shine

onto the pathways leading 

to the yellow seaside of Devon.

The cows wistfully lowing about

the crows over the scorched grass.

Recumbent on a haystack 

a wanderer takes a sound snooze.

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 gazes at 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 breeze

 makes her sob like a child.

 

Between a silent pack of wolves on the hill

and a golden moon over the shoreline 

Aphrodite smiles.

*John Betjeman