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The sun places its yellow mop
On these same green fields where
Yesterday the cold and rain that would not stop
Drove into the living gutter
The turbulence of its yellow life: there,
Apple green, plum cold, the same water
Of these juices flew in wings
From under the galloping buses.
A tremendous gale blew everything away!
I thought I would catch my death:
Fingers numb, feet in double cusps
Of pain - trousers like mathematical arcs!
Looking out now, I see a million blades of grass,
Like images in the smoke of a hundred years of peace! |
