A clear-cut stream frisks
Over moss-leathered granite –
Stones smooth from ancient moulding
Of a pattering current’s constant pressure,
And I dabble my gritted, bare feet,
Suddenly stark-chilled, as the hazy sun
Draws its corrugation of dust-curtains
Over the wave-cornfields, to turn and twist
Like assembled flocks of starlings’
Soaring arch in grey-black clouds.
He meets you at the mill-gate, thinking to
Pass by, but caught in your winsome trap,
Stops to gaze and fumble for silly words,
You smile in easy triumph at his loss,
Found in this strangely glad encounter,
And wait, perhaps remembering with
Irony the many others who bent to your will.
Now here this tongue-tied boy squirms
But does not want to go free. He listens
To the beat of a heart, edged with fervour.
He dare not move, for then he’ll reveal
The turmoil of uncontrollable passion
Which with violent twists tumbles
Its way through broken, bleeding flesh.