Invasion Summer

The evening, the heather,

the unsecretive cuckoo

and butterflies in their disorder,

not a word of war as we lie

our mouths in a hot nest

and the flowers advancing.

Does a hill defend itself,

does a river run to earth

to hide its quaint neutrality?

A boy is shot with England in his brain,

but she lies brazen yet beneath the sun,

she has no honour and she has no fear.