The earth is grass –
like cane seeking up
its shoots are driven:
here in the half-country,
above the brickmould of houses,
the road of c.c. and car-shine,
is a green bowl
where we sit on a lip
and children scattered like thistles
count the colours, lie about butterflies:
the air is pierced
in my mind, by wild bamboo –
so these heirs, these off-shoots
of a land-gash, of a handful of hills
cut out their own space –
so quick scrambling minds
battle to make sense
of shrug-shoulder Earth.
Let them climb these hills,
choose delving routes, cut through brambles,
clamber to chalk-caves’ cool,
make fortunes in flower and fossil-stone . . .
use all the light in five hours.
I shall remember the bloom of the children, this outing.