[wpaudio url=”/audio/London/haggith.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
The hill is a blaze of rapefield yellow,
formica kitchen table yellow,
angry bawling teenage drumkit yellow
though honey biscuit sweet
with pale primroses at its feet
a demure cuckoo across the glen
and dandelions and tormentils below
all yellow, yellow, yellow.