We broke from the platform in scattered sun
to skim through a suburb of jungle elders
and floppy sycamores, daubed with light,
and every garden framed the Downs;
a high horizon lined with green,
creased to a field at every seam.
A clunk of doors at Dunton Green,
the hooped railings rattle and the signs speed.
Early rain had crushed the heads
and perfume slipped the window catch,
pouring through the morning daze
to drug the air in a yawning haze.
I looked up from my corrected page
and streaming purple ran the glass,
waving lines of dipping hair,
riding through the sweeping breeze;
a million heads of bobbing grace,
weaving the fields to tapes of lace.
Behind closed lids, above winding power,
a farmyard springs within endless lines
of floating bees and elastic stems,
as scent and colour fuse to earth;
the fields now run ten miles away
and still they wash the drying day.