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.
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.
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