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They paddle with staccato feet In powder-pools of sunlight, Small blue busybodies Strutting like fat gentlemen With hands clasped Under their swallowtail coats; And, as they stump about, Their heads like tiny hammers Tap at imaginary nails In non-existent walls. Elusive ghosts of sunshine Slither down the green gloss Of their necks in an instant, and are gone. Summer hangs drugged from sky to earth In limpid fathoms of silence: Only warm dark dimples of sound Slide like slow bubbles From the contented throats. Raise a casual hand - With one quick gust They fountain into air.
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