Midsummer's Day, Cornwall
Wind-charged mist over the hunching land
birds riding the wet wave, paralysed trees
in right-angle agonies, green valleys
chastened by a hidden sun. Even the roses
have gone pale. The palm's long fingers
swing high and higher while the snails
in the garden eat on. Wait long and longer.
Now midday and the wind has blown out
to clear blue skies and sun and colour.
Beyond the mustard and wheat fields
St. Agnes Beacon shimmers faint and
beckoning. Tonight the fire will burn
on her crest and we will dance as the stars
wheel, laughing, at our small lives.