One, two, three and again
I snip, tear and deftly clip
Topping their yellow nubs,
Pocketing their spiny stalks,
Picking from the yellowy swarm
As if a Swift amongst Wasps.
I am as heavy with sleep,
As the Earth is with rainfall;
I make tracks upon those of others;
I stoop, forage and gather;
Two Sparrowhawks high above,
Worms writhing in sod underfoot.
Looking to the edge of the sky
I sense that more rain closens;
I smile upwards still, to the grey
Then grip and cleave a ragged boulder,
Two schvips, and Moss is cast assunder,
As droplets fall and fall, and fall.