We communicate. We do not say
our words into meaning that a day
is as it goes beside the fluent Channel.
Our gesture is our language, frank
but at the same time reticent.
We know when not to vault decorum,
a quality of others: such as this peach tree
making an individual phrase by loaded blossom,
that paddock to the north of Warkworth
where tractor patterns turn light back to hills
further north than parochial scheming.
Justly saying ‘Look!’ or ‘Did you see that?’
Smiling, because it chose to reveal itself,
what it is, consonant, and the form of it
shown forth in an instance which means true.
We communicate, in the resonant silences
between my words. Also, are your words.
Earthquake Weather. AUP 1972, p.77.