101.

The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape

Drives by the houses — the invention

Of private lives dwells beyond the windows

And some tenderness arises amid

The diurnal wars. Over the hedges,

Where lavender reaches, there is life

Not entirely prone to venality

And lust. The rain has started, but it’s not

The end of the world. The sky has turned

To shale, and the ghost of a king rails

On the heath. He is angry at love,

Forgets his absent wife, blames his daughters,

Vanishes into myth. The taut train rushes

Into the valley, the land some consolation.