After harvest there were autumn days

of  airy nothings. Plein-air.

I hoped that one day, like this

we could build ourselves

a new estate to take the place

of the old one

indexed to its horizon

of dismantled chateaux.
We would grow our own ancient wheat

in a field dotted with subsidised tractors.
Storms rolled in and other weather effects

we could filter out, at least the worst of them.

We compared British clouds to sheep

in dozy evidence of picnics.
I could dream of my younger self

in a cloak of oaks and green leaf-light, the light

unseen in England or Australia,

the light the painters saw

when we dreamed, the golden glow

rolling in

over a desert inland sea.