As I stood there on that lazy summer day

the world tilted with the sun

hawthorn privet

plantain, wild orchids

all a palette of play

on the raggedy downs.

 

I clambered down the bank

into the pit of chalk where gobbets lay

strewn,

puddled after recent rain.

 

Looking up I could see the perimeter fringed

the plunge down where the sculpture of effort

had scalloped a great signature

a wedge of fossils pressed into service

in the great death moan of watery time

with their secret offerings

from the white Gods.

 

Man had toiled here,  carts loaded

citadels of dust rose and fell

labour's dues paid.

 

On the yawning edge

a spider laterally crossed a thistle pod

a spindrift of web

criss crossed pausing

where its balance was metered out.