High Summer

the dark never really
comes in high summer -
it is light when we bed,
it is light overnight,
it is light when we rise

today a scorched breeze,
benign cotton-wool clouds,
I hear Sunday cars
on the road
and the coaches go past:
tourists looking at my
home and me
in my pyjamas

the grasses dance to and fro
clover still attracts the bees
the mountain basks in hot
sun and is green
to the summit -
it may rain
at 8 o'clock
a benison

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