Hilary S. Jacqmin
The river Dart was stung with lemon light.
Plum nectar turned plum blossoms into gold.
We shared a honey ice-cream by the bight:
bright cloud of cold.
Stoke Gabriel was balsam, rosined, steep,
its ancient stonework thick as candy sponge.
Beside the dim and only churchyard, deep
sweet water plunged
into a smoky stream. If we return,
we'll breathe in hard the warm and cidered air,
and taste the bramble currants' seeded burn.
We'll wander, stare
at hedges, hotel holly foiled blue,
gilt walnut trees, banked clouds like clotted cream,
and root like an eternal graveside yew,
spooled up inside one endless amber dream.