Toffee Coloured Flint
In that place where the flints
Are toffee-coloured,
A cold, snot-drawing
Wind cuts to the
Quick white-packed sky
Glaring heavy on those
Ridges you only notice
Now on the bark of
The bare-stripped tree.
That oak-apple almost sings
In the grey-white light
And only the stones
Still hold a memory of
Summer heat-haze and
Sandals scuffing in
The green-scented
Dry of the path.
The deep amber of
The flint holds more
Than memory of summer.
Place. Self. And Dream.
All there, prefigured
In calcite.
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