by Audrey Theodosia Bryant
The air is heavy and thick with heat
but clear through it come the coolfingers of the wind.
The thunders answer each other, valley to valley,
in long and angry conversation.
The distance is lost,
the line of the mountain
is drowned in a sea of pale grey
and the mountain beyond it
is more imagined than real.
A bumble-bee journeying the mountain miles
is very noisy.
He returns to investigate three or four times
and is gone.
The birds are too high up to see
and sing like heaven itself:
the reeds blow and the cotton-tops
make stars across the heath.
Cool fingers of wind
bring a little rain in the palm of your hand
and cool me -
my head aches with heaviness
and the freckles appear on my skin as I watch.
My eyes are very dry
but I lift them again to the hills
that stand above thunder
for ever and ever. Amen.