Along the ridge - beyond where the honeysuckle Names the lane that binds to the woods and downs those Homes where only now are they blindly waking, Careless of wonder - Walking early, under a scoured sky; dirt Washed down underfoot to a thousand clouded Mirrors, silent answers to all the coming Questions of autumn.
Reading as I walked out toward the bostal - Pale finger slipping into a glove of owl-light Under crowding trees - but always aware, the Dog leading inward, I looked up from some other poet's mind; met Eye to darting eye with a forest shadow: One still deer, at gaze, as the sun that climbed wept Gold on the fallow.
Kite-strut legs strained tight for escape. Our fear was Staling tongues, our hearts speaking ever faster; Silver then she fled into pale-lit beech woods. Neither the master. No more reading then, with the moment passing Even as I reached for it. It seemed gone, but As I turned to leave, with the magazine it Slipped in my pocket.
 
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