Sparrow Hills

Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap! Summer’s stream won’t run for ever. We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar night after night, in a dusty fever. I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies! No wave will lift its hands to the stars. They say – who believes? No face in the leaves, no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts. Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming. It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes? See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething, fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines. Here, the city’s trolley-lines end. Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees. Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches, the glade running off, sliding on leaves. Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking, ‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood. So the copse planned it, the clearing was told, So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.