Give me bluebell cups where the sky has been poured
and fields large enough to contain skyships
coming down like fallen birthday balloons.
To be sure a child is crying
where rain is a gauzy curtain,
and the train is never on time.
Count with me the many seashells
that have washed up in the comb
of kelp and moss. Fingers are only one way
to play upon the keys of happy instruments.
Give me tables and tables
of song makers, a brave open coast,
fields of corn along the inland roads,
silver strung and whistling
as the wind unfurls and opens its broad face.
