The Thinking Poet



On arrival, gifts were kindly brought:

Apples, juice of apples, loganberries preserved.

After supper, at owl-hoot time,

Down arm-stretch wide lanes

We wondered that such peace had been conserved.

Sleepy-eyed I woke to Orford’s dawn

Rising up with amber streaks in azure sky

Asking myself: why and how

Such gifts as these could be deserved.

Now, by the buddleia, writing these few lines

A butterfly rests a moment on my arm,

Plums ripen and glow on laden trees,

And I share joy with swallows cable-roosting in the sun.

Here at High House Farm.


Broom Cottage

August 2004