Donald Ward
The Planes
The heat quivers as the shadows pass,
The heat quivers . . . but the planes are gone.
Out of the wood the silent deer may stare,
Smell the quick sun and sink into the dark.
Immovable pilots glide on nylon tyres;
The hill’s cleavage roll its green pearls.
Out of the field’s rank collusion — bloom.
Rank grass suffocates with dew.
Out of each eye more silent than the night
Silent forests regulate the sky.
Delicately sullen — impalpable as God
Valleys float darkening into pines.
Out of the trees buzzards pause — and sleep,
Red Admirals stay on their blue flowers,
But the heat quivers as the shadows pass —
The heat quivers . . . but the planes are gone.
Page(s) 15
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