A solstice of burnt oaks,a wealth of yews that
despite the ardent heat from yesterday
(more than a day old)fills the sky with lemon.
The furnace of the day`s heart; more than
the cool green,as starlings bang in the sink
of the afternoon.This must be the shade of
a copsed church,but do not fear as the day stretches;
no,the pine bed smells of wax and earth.
Badgers hide in the low bank of ground,
trees join hands,headless eyes hang under branches
We are complete with ourselves;
fresh and cunning and cool in a dark tent.