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She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent

One misty evening, one another’s guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home.

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off

The grade surmounted we were speeding high
Through level mountains nothing to the eye
But scrub oak, scrub oak and the lack of earth

Writers find a way to challenge and chronicle the consciences of their nations.

Ingres drew her
with rudimentary breasts
and pre-pubescent wings
barely sketched in.

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning