comb harvest

Breeze mewed at the flagship excavated rocks
multiplied with the ache of clouds new cars
rolled swinging to have harvested this thought
sail tiling oak-leaved on the fretted stars
the face half closed as in a steepened sport
       a concentration locks
up mutinies distractions and the time
to shed a cornet of rude sunburnt bracts
unhallowed measurement and wretched facts
the windstill frothed inside the jugs of lime

Under the trees a silence rarely heard

a range of tufts inhabiting long air

insipid fibre frail to the eye

to hold such stillness only here and where

it lay remote on water and the sky

      reflected or recurred

was stillness resting in a vocal glass

cool as the realms that rise upon the tide

and turn to sweetness on its lower side

the repetition of bewitching grass