Judy
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 half way;
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 bean-flower somewhere
Has ousted the blue-bells:
Birds clatter numberless:
In the muffled wood
Big feet move slowly:
Mean no good.