Writing on the Wall

I’m tender with
the soft wind
parting and folding
the young Beach,
and bend
touching the leaves
ribbed underside.
Lay in your hands,
soft as the baby
leafs new down.
 
Am damp in turbulence
with indigo clouds,
dishing their weight
above fields sliced lemon,
with oil seed rape.
Line myself between
the sculpted ridges
of earthed up spuds.
 
And I with the hot land
ache for wet suffusion,
to fill full the crazy fissures
splitting round the corn
and winter wheat.
 
I’m in the crumbly dark
with seed potatoes,
yearning to spill
their tubers into
small white pearls
between my fingers.
 
I’ll push up
in their green fuses
and ignite with sun,
and know again the rains
hot pleasure on my face.