  Sand hot to haunches: Sun beating eyes down, Yet they peer under lashes At the hill’s crown: See how the hill slants Up the sky half way; Over the top tall clouds Poke, gold and grey. Down: see a green field Tipped on its short edge, Its upper rim straggled round By a black hedge. Grass bright as new brass: Uneven dark gorse Stuck to its own shadow, Like Judy that black horse. Birds clatter numberless, And the breeze tells That bean-flower somewhere Has ousted the blue-bells: Birds clatter numberless: In the muffled wood Big feet move slowly: Mean no good. |
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