Classic Poem

Sand hot to my haunches,
The sun beats my eyes down —
Yet they peer under lashes
At the hill's crown:

See how the hill slants
Up the sky half way;
Over the top tall clouds
Poke, gold and grey.

Down: see a green field
Tipped on its short edge,
Its upper rim straggled round
By a black hedge.

Grass bright as new brass:
Uneven dark gorse
Stuck to its own shadow;
Like Judy, that black horse.

Birds clatter numberless,
And the breeze tells
That bean-flower somewhere
Has ousted the blue-bells:

Birds clatter numberless:
And in the muffled wood
Big feet move slowly:
Mean no good.