Roger Garfitt
September Morning
Moored where World’s End
tugs at hedge and acre,
the herd rides out the mist,
a Grand Fleet at anchor.
Sun shrivels the mist, turns
its burning-glass on me.
The grass tropic steams, dawn
on the Sargasso Sea.
Leeward of the Sun,
I coast the quiet airs
west of elm and willow,
by temperate hemispheres
where spiders’ bright escarpments
chalk the bramble cliffs;
dew shoals the grasses,
and darkness lies in reefs.
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