Sunday

In August, oaks are orchestras
In concert on the public greens.
The maestro bows to light applause.
The crickets tap their tambourines.

An easy, bright formality
Is visited upon the day.
Maidenly spirits serve us tea
And after clear the cups away.

To get us closer to the sky
We rest our dreams upon the grass.
The laundered clouds are piled so high
The branches will not let them pass.

A hawk’s wide ploughshare tilts and tills
His cultivated fields of air.
The angels at their windowsills
Remark the weather passing fair.

Something’s discovered in a day
Whose means are matched to gentle ends.
From a point of stillness far away,
A parable of light descends.

Alfred Nicol


Summer Solstice From the Brick House, Laurel Waters