The sun falls down
To lift the sun from where she’s fallen in the stream
would take two of us, and a cart in which to heave her
wheeling her back to where the sky begins
to let her have another turn.
She would be winking, ungainly, broad-backed
in the barrow, all mild and ribald. Drunken landlady
bestowing white-gold on our faces
just as she’s doing now: a manic disc
simmering in the cloud-water
where the meadow detaches from itself.
We don’t mind that she’s fallen –
we’ll help her up, of course we will.