Meadow threaded, seen apart from commute and promenade;

to hold it still, I will –

etch with saffron, the whole of the sun

and fill my pockets warm, with her.

The cotton drop,

where the spider foots

and the wind, knotted with timber tuts -

I shall loop with my button holes and hold them close,

and then when the time is right,

and fastened up,

draw the hood over my head

and stand under the moon and stars.