Water Colour        

The gorse is out along the hills,

     Gold against a sovereign green

          Which everywhere is burgeoning:

The flowerlets, like aspergills,

     Catch in their cups the misty rain,

          Then sprinkle it on wandering

              Climbers to the crest.


A swan, two cygnets, and a blue

     Immobile heron guard the pool

          That lies below a ridge of rock.

The water, sullen silver to

     The sky’s more pewter grey, is full

          Of ripples from the rain: a flock

              Of terns, reflected, pass.


Silence across the marshes, down

     Below this lightly gilded height:

          There cows, like dappled anchored boats,

Wait in the haze: beyond, a crown

     Of towered dunes suspends the flight

          Of terns, almost at rest, and floats

              By the sea’s digressive edge.