Neptune, open-mouthed, discredited,
Spouts from the fountain on our rosy wall.
This August evening air is equable.
I fetch a bottle from our earthy shed
By swags of grapes that hang in green and red,
And from our complex wrought-iron chairs we call
The talkative cat, watch campanile-tall
Hollyhocks nodding to us from their bed
Then pick some berries. How can I begin
To thank you for all you give and understand?
Icebergs have shrunk to icecubes, topped with gin.
House martins sew the sky. A bumblebee
Goes stumbling round the blue hibiscus tree,
Coated in pollen like a boy in sand.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 1, on page 25
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