Whimsy

I
So cold,
with a diminishing sense of self

my words are lessened, my world
hemmed.   Evening rises

and the cold air takes little notice of my clothes,
takes advantage

that I am gloveless. Under a clear sky, with the sound

of the sea in my left, and the mechanical

sea in my right, I begin to see that
it’s not the place, it's just —

II
The joy of a sigh, of wearing
a sigh.

Heigh ho, close riding, far
over moorland, by

the Fell, searching for protecting clouds,
smiles,   mossy mounds, flowering

firm.  Hands on hips, sway
in the breeze — like a young beech.