Summertide Weald Poem by Leslie Philibert

A solstice of burnt oaks, a wealth of yews
that despite the ardent heat from yesterday
(more than a day old) makes the sky with lemon.
The furnace of the day`s heart not more than green shade.
Starlings bang in the sink of the afternoon.
Do not have fear, no, the day stretches,
the pine bed smells of wax and earth.
Badgers hide in the low bank of earth,
headless eyes hang under branches, trees join hands.

We are complete with ourselves, fresh and cunning,
cool in a dark tent.