Near Salisbury
Birch trunks stand white, grey, rust; twigs, tipped with green,
Spread with the innocence of new spring birth.
Sky, blue with faintest haze, shows in between;
A catkin drops, quite silent, to the earth.
Across the furrowed field a tiny breeze
Breathes, stirring leaves; but all is sheltered here.
I start at some faint creaking of the trees:
What stranger lurks? All's well; no man is near.
Within the wood our sun-warm Eden-ring
Lies green with grass, new brambles, white star-flowers,
And loud with bird-song and bird answering;
An early bee begins her toilsome hours.
Eve of this Paradise, beside me you
Sleep on - now stir and sigh - then sleep anew.
Looking back at this sonnet, which I must have written more than 30 yeas ago, I am reminded of Rossetti's
Silent Noon, of which it seems a pale reflection. Still, part of my life and love. And all very innocent, I assure you!
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