The earth curdles, hurtling away into space.
Where once we awoke to lakes
In the fields, now morning enshrines us
In alcoves of shadow.
The air, washed clean of desire,
Shines like a crystal window
Into blue distances:
We count tree-crowns
on far away mountains.
Cicadas wake chilled, jewelled with dew.
Too sluggish to start up
Their damaged machines
They stagger towards infinity;
And the church of their silence
Fills with birdsong.