Warm boxwood, gravel
raked acquiescent,
the fountain’s courtesy
evoke old contradiction –

sky drifts weightless over
an English lawn, and you know
the tree will explode
in happiness, the fields riot

in the heat. Black hair
awry, high color, the twist
of joy in rolled shirtsleeves
persuade the reins.

You were the stranger then –
hear the breath of the horses.
Hold to a gallop on the Downs
and home content.