A Drop Spindle: Come Cutters
(On climbing a hill fort and encountering swifts, on a windy day in early June)
We climbed a hill today in sweet June-light
That wind thrill, silvered grasses, chalk-bright.
Below afield, far and broad
Town and city spreads, cathedral hoard,
Woollen woods and plastic seas,
Skylark peals on quickened breeze.
The lark ascending, old soul-kindle,
Shelley’s muse, a drop spindle,
Winding, drawing, latched to song:
An in breath held impossibly long.
Blue air. June air. Day fair.
Towns and city spreads.
Walking woods and Tennyson seas,
Grasses show stiff-silvered breeze.
On the tops, hill chalk-taught
Twixt ancients’ rounds and astronaut,
Come the swifts.
Come cutters! Come martlet! Come sickle-swallow!
Twist, turn! Slice and cleave!
Cut the song-strings skylarks weave!
And stall, measure, test the air,
Cushion off, bank and never-there!
Devil bird and summer-show,
Natures dart from cupids bow,
Pierce my heart, let breath flow.
And lit, scythe, spin, … breathe…
Town and city spreads, cathedral-shored,
Woven woods and oiled seas,
Skylark peals on quickened breeze.
The lark ascending,
A drop spindle: come sky-cutters.
Come the swifts.
