Sunday morning on Kilvey hill

Sunday morning on Kilvey hill

Upon the mauve the sun light lies across

the heather, in its lucky white guise, shining 

lancet of the night, upon this suckling morn,

warming the dew's breath lifting dawn; and

standing above the docks wrapped around

the piers that hail, good morning Mumbles,
this breathless morn, primed as a church organ 
waiting for the suited to take their solemn pews.

While up here, on the hill, all time stands still;

trilled by the lark rising in all clarity to slake 

the mists away. And hot in quivery shakes 

the boy, above the bay, long in tarrying says:

stay soft, bewitched, upon this hill;

deign fall to sleep in the long grass,

and in the turned grass dream

until the last sunbeam 

is drawn across

the malted moon,

and all too soon, my son,

all too soon, 

the day is done.