Laurie Lee

Apples

Behold the apples’ rounded worlds: Juice-green of July rain, The black polestar of flowers, the rind Mapped with its crimson stain. The russet, crab and cottage red Burn to the sun’s hot brass, Then

Such a morning it is when love Leans through geranium windows And calls with a cockerel’s tongue. When red-haired girls scamper like roses Over the rain-green grass; And the sun drips honey. When hedgerows

Milkmaid

The girl’s far treble, muted to the heat, Calls like a fainting bird across the fields To where her flock lies panting for her voice, Their black horns buried deep in marigolds. They climb

Home From Abroad

Far-fetched with tales of other worlds and ways, My skin well-oiled with wines of the Levant, I set my face into a filial smile To greet the pale, domestic kiss of Kent. But shall

April Rise

If ever I saw blessing in the air I see it now in this still early day Where lemon-green the vaporous morning drips Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye. Blown bubble-film of

Town Owl

On eves of cold, when slow coal fires, Rooted in basements, burn and branch, Brushing with smoke the city air; When quartered moons pale in the sky, And neons glow along the dark Like