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A berry, flirting from the crowded holly,
Or dropped at its dark foot, slightly crumpled,
But certain that the folded good inside it,
Though not the word for spring, is still a word
As bitter, bright and crystal-complex…Lammas,
The earthed berry promises: good morrow.
From Oxford Poetry Vol 13 No 2 (Winter 2009).
In memory of Mick Imlah
Winter is cold-hearted,
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weathercock
Blown every way.
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side;
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
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