The winds pasture in the clouds;
The earth breathes:
Spring earth soft with water,
Dense with leaf,
And a duck puddles in the water
In the ditch by the motorway,
And the broad bank is vivid with flowers,
Gloss buttercup and the dandilion flare;
The young oak flourishes leaf
And the beercan rusts at its roots.
Cars scythe past and echo in the stone:
Square buildings where the night survives,
Where winter lingers.
Sun bakes the clay;
Stone postures in the sky:
The great bridge arcs the gully
Across the tar and dust
Where engines churn and iron moves
To satisfy the lust
Of oil dreams and senile hands,
Grey plans of steel and power.

The grass cradles my body:
I lie in the shade of the cloud,
In the cirrus hours,
And listen to the earth inhale the sun.