Our pioneers keep striking Inwards and downwards, Every layer they strip Seems camped on before. The bogholes might be Atlantinc seepage. The wet centre is bottomless. But it's in full bloom now. As if the small yolk stain From all the birds' eggs in All the nests of spring Were spiked and hung Everywhere on bushes to ripen.
Hills oxidize gold.
Above the smoulder of green shoot And dross of dead thorns underfoot The blossoms scald. Put a match under Whins, they go up of a sudden. The tough sticks don't burn, Remain like bone, charred horn. Persists on hills, near stone ditches, Over flint bed and battlefield. Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.