Sand hot to haunches:
Sun beating eyes down,
Yet they peer under lashes
At the hill’s crown:
See how the hill slants
Up the sky halfway:
Over the top tall clouds
Poke gold and grey.
Down: see a green field
Tipped on its short edge,
Its upper rim straggled round
By a black hedge.
Grass bright as new brass:
Uneven dark gorse
Stuck to its own shadow
_Like Judy that black horse_.
Birds clatter numberless,
And the breeze tells
That beanflower somewhere
Has ousted the bluebells.
Birds clatter numberless:
In the muffled wood
Big feet move slowly:
Mean no good.