Arid reams of straw-speckled hills,
The world is dead and blue in afterglow,
The heavens flash, diffuse with misty flights
Of needled wind: a dusty waking sew.

Quaint streams and quiet stumps lie down in peace,
Bask in the open heights of canopies,
They've leant against the sky to hide from all,
The busyness and noisy streets.

A podium in eights,
Dressed in pretty metal,
Wipe off all dusty slates,
Scratch out pretty petals,
For now the date is special.

Flexing arms pile on and wrestle,
I deem thee jostle hug,
In active opposition - jest,
Four limbs locked in a cuddle snug.