Surmounting the ordinary flatness,
a lios. Streamlet runs-in-wait,
laughs me out of it. The further
I go, the more appreciably distance
greens. The man I saw making hay
last August is dying in a near
cottage. Neighbour, what can I say
to suddenness, streamlet, lios,
to the lurch of a big yellow frog
across my boot? Only that our road
ran through summer, its children
already tall as we were, you swore,
‘Jez, there must be new methods
of making them!’ then we scanned
afar the blue apparition of hills.