Two poems from The Sands
Chert & spar; then malm,
not far from the road’s southing;
greensand & the bright yellow
layer, open at the field’s edge
for the day’s running & leaps;
a long soft window, its lintel
kept white where the feet stop:
the last clump on the wood
before the spring into air.
In the distance, furse, heath
and ferns. Silence for a sport
from the original Athens.
With set face, he turns,
sweeping his shadow cold across
the well-mown grass, & runs
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