THE LARK
Up on the Uffington chalk downs
children run wild with wind
in their faces and hair
blood pounding…
…a twittering sifts, drifting
from the ozone fields above
to the grassy slopes below -
zinging the senses awake
resonant in unedged silences.
The endless blue is almost blown away
washed-out into no-thing:
speckly molecules at the end of an eye -
not even a tiny bird visible,
singing it’s heart out since dawn
to hallowed Space itself.
The human interloper
eavesdropping this paean,
can feel every blade of grass creak,
each sinew squeak and stretch,
every nano-fleck of air rustle and roil,
each moment, an infinitude.