Over the golden hill on a still day
Swelled the blue summer-flood of sky;
And on that high tide buzzards floated
So far away, their lonely crying
Was only a tiny sound with no emotion,
And their broad soaring and gliding hardly a ripple
In the ocean-firmament.
On the shore of the sky, the hill-horizon,
The blue surge broke in a froth of wild horses,
Luminous maned, their galloping
Stylized by distance to a line of foam.
Now I am distant from that August day
The crying of the heart is far and tiny;
And shall I say that memory is lying,
Recording me as tranquil as the day?

from New and Selected Poems (Seren, 2004), ? Ruth Bidgood 2004, used by permission of the author

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