The box-elder's summer-shedding; leaves a plenty, swayed above me, yet some fall, green gusts scattering - yesterday's loosing already yellowing over shooting daisies, fragmented hay matting, ragged lawn blades, so tousled by such rough-and-ready mowing.
Where box elder sways, those willows, holding our north-eastern border, thrash and roar more constantly than the coast road, whose waves tread heavy - rubber pressed on tarmac that sore, raw, cutting-by.
But wind, not to be outdone, ups willow decibels till a sky-train is passing and tiny blush-petals of hawthorn-blossom strew over my paper, into my hair, and cover the little front-patio concrete.
2
A cold gale rages from the North about these grassy banks, swirls the Alexanders and mustards in their ranks; takes your breath away, snatches your indrawn breath away freezes your nostrils; till there's nothing you can say; what could you say?
The sweet white clovers and the daisies low lie snug beneath the fuss while taller lash and bow. A great bear shakes his shaggy jowls, roars all to appall; daisies curtsy daintily, pipe, "My, my! Bless us all!"
3
The waves are mountainous, ranges raising snowy ridged illusions. Confess a wry delight and fear that all that 'height' must tumble down, to wash us cold and stop our mouths with milk-white foam, artificer made wild in glacial churn, blowing arabesques, living wriggles up sea-smoothed slope to pile upon heavier cream, yellowed sea-sand trembled wind-scream till banshee breaks them - disintegrating bubbled solids splatter...
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4
Sheltered in dune lee lodged by wild lettuce* overlooking sea-pink meadows and one far village, drinks awaiting us.
