Banded in turquoise, sea meets sky
like the cut edge of frosted glass
smudged with icy showers.
A translucent peach curtain hangs,
ruched and folded with the rain
that slides west under a grey ceiling.
Overhead, needle-beaked gulls thread the east wind
to sew the torn clouds back over the blue .
We go up through the woods where the night hides
in the tunnel of trees and out again into the fading day.
Across the ditches the coarse fields on the red cliffs
are knobbled with gorse bushes and tufty grass
like an old green bathrobe flung lumpily on terracotta.
The iron-grey tarmac, marbled with veins of frozen water,
twists up to the end of the day and the purple mountains,
cut out and embossed on smoking yellow.