|
| |
| |
| A rowan like a lipsticked girl. |
| Between the by-road and the main road |
| Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance |
| Stand off among the rushes. |
| |
| There are the mud-flowers of dialect |
| And the immortelles of perfect pitch |
| And that moment when the bird sings very close |
| To the music of what happens. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
