Tailormade

If Heaven could be made to measure
I would have lapwings
Clowning in black and white
Above a new–turned field:
Shadows of clouds,
Faster than clouds themselves,
Sweeping bare hilltops:
Summer winds, skimming like smoke
Over a field of barley.

I would like becks to slip,
Contralto, cool,
From stony lip to lap:
And darker waters
Silent under dark alders.
I would have roses catch
In frail corollas
Frailer rain: wild daffodils
Swinging wet muzzles.
Hazels would make a local shower,
Green as the early sun,
And bees comb heather,
Turning the smell to honey.

There would be company:
A warm male hand to palm,
A rumbly voice to talk to me —
But not for ever:
Heaven would provide a door
To close at will.