To the Whispering Beech of Cleeve Hill
Soft shake
sculpts the surge
as strung out twists,
the permanent forms of the blast
proud in centrifugal spin
cross the five ways
Gold stater slipped in the Malverns purse
Their bulbous jointed horse
clears the ditch
Triple whip-tailed
copper, iron, gold
Cirrus makes
slate-sliver
on the beacons, blue extrusion
as sky and valley
spreads its table for the day's crumbs
Lamb lands on a ewe's flat back
solicits no reaction
circular jaw
masticates the springing green
Watcher of the old bowed track
silent pinion on
serene scars
the cup and ring grained in the turf
As the wind sings down your
fluting ridge and furrow
you tingle with every voice
that ever cut this breeze
Whispering beacon, destiny cross
copper-crowned queen of knolls
