the dark never really comes in high summer - it is light when we bed, it is light overnight, it is light when we rise today a scorched breeze, benign cotton-wool clouds, I hear Sunday cars on the road and the coaches go past: tourists looking at my home and me in my pyjamas the grasses dance to and fro clover still attracts the bees the mountain basks in hot sun and is green to the summit - it may rain at 8 o'clock a benisonnext poem