It’s the way things happen here
the way the sun wakes me slowly in summer.

My first sight through wide open windows the meadow,
splashed with poppies — moon daisies, sloping gently
from the foot of my bed to the high moor
where buzzards hang-glide above the rocks
and wortleberrys hide.

My hungry eyes peeled open drink the oasis
foxgloves tremble by granite walls, open-mouthed to bees.

A lark is calling up the day.

Stealing over the night-cooled earth a vixen sniffs the air
and from their safe house geese grumble.