Lanes on the cusp
of honeysuckle and dog-rose,
of honeysuckle and dog-rose,
ash and oak in their full clothes.
Here where this damselfly alights
on the solar globe of the ox-eye daisy,
where the spells that make rain and wind
and birdtracks pleach the air –
again and again we sing the sun back up,
spin summer-short moonlight into our hair;
again and again in this circle of days and nights
against loss, decay, death, we raise hope, friendship, love.
Brief lives; but the stuff of which we’re made
