On streaming silk that hangs from summer's muse,
Such holy golden weave embellishes the sight,
For such unhastened thralling ruse,
The trees are draped in peridots!

Departing from The Lakes I leave enrapt,
These gentle monarchs in heather fitted,
So kissing every blushing sky they fall,
Upon the napes of clouds with deepest care.

The call to sleep compounds into a scream,
Sublimates into a resounding thud and ache,
Surrounding all my head and nestled deep behind my eyes,
Coiled up like muscled snakes within my legs,
Ok I head, I head.

Sore hands,
Caked in chalk,
They sizzle like a good steak,
Flamed and barbecue fired,
I connect them - to the heat placate,
And they seem to spark through the cracks between.