Buttercups,
yellow like honey,
become peculiar sweets
towards the sea
-line where I sit
slighting the grey.

Stars, bubble-topped,
in champagne rise
the firelight of this beaded day.

Blow the blue swallows,
loops of the air,
whose south and southern fragrance
sow the summer day down to the –
say of nowhere newly made somewhere.

Lift all the wheat
the harvester the combine
combining to bind
binding the bound the golden.

Slip all the day
down to the throat
the ear stray
for the sea terns’ splash
or the noise of the stoat.

Graft till the grip
is the tight of crowded lines,
and the seaward trip
whitely stars
as phosphorescence drips
pleasure-presents, those
lips on lips.