There is dew on the ground
And on the tongues of leaves.
Dew on the barbed wire
And on the heavy morning flower.
The sound of a motor car
Soft through the vale
Doesn’t perplex your membrane.
The silent, lazy jet overhead,
Scarring the sky,
Doesn’t disturb your tranquil bed.
Early morning flower,
Heavy and glazed with water.
Manna for your machine,
Manna for your nine daughters.
Always it stands
In pure readiness and fire.