No. 17

I heard your low tide 'fore saw it,
aching greyscale, overharvest,
oceans of Summer, scattered hens,  
Lucifer languishing in flo'rbeds.
 
Smoke plumes swamping spearmint,
no lapping those without thorns,
and sometimes, honey, we'll talk  
over berberis - your face just a feeling.  
 
You'll warn close to leaving, down river
felt unholy not to say
how Holly and Damsons would miss you,
how'd I'd wander lone to top of the hill,  
 
sing with corvids in ceilingless chorus,
oceans of Summer recoiling the soil,  
and your old jumper, unravelling, wouldn't love the way you did,
and the harvest wouldn't love at all