The poet who goes by what she thinks she should write, paying more attention to fashion than to her own poetic identity, will never write anything that goes beyond that fashion.
After the Air Tattoo
All in the stilly night the muntjac
roars from its hedge: a barking roar
of July, heat, its own broken-open
viscose, a sky
static with plane-roar.
The intermission after the greatest air show in the world;
fields and lane recovering;
tarmac tonguing sky again,
in the summer half-dark, towards Fairford
where ancient glass trembles,
facets of dark open to tumble out
king, revenge-tragedy, triumphal colors of God.