Over the sunstruck, drystone wall
we were ambushed by the sway
and scent of a July meadow—
whites of tall daisy and yarrow,
purples of scabious and cranesbill,
the bitten yellow of cat’s ear,
the blue tremble of harebells,
and far more we couldn’t name,
but we were caught, are caught still,
in the blurry, summery sway of it.