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.