Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/49

 Something that I wouldn’t understand. And the grass stems Stiffening to bear the headed grain, The rose, The hawthorn Covering with bony fingers Their swollen wombs, The summer shrivelling to husks, to shells, Pease-cods, seedboxes, The summer sucking through a withered straw Enough stale water for a few beans, For a handful of swelling peas in a sealed bladder, For the living something in a closed womb.

Upon the sand This brine, these bubbles— The wave of summer is drowned in the salt land.