Summerlight

The light is hard in this hour
Between afternoon and evening.
It is not sharp lemon
Nor honey sweet
Nor gently flowing
Into the hollows of the land
The hollow of my throat.

I do not walk in this light,
As much as into it
With a clatter and a clang
With a ringing
Like some great, golden bell
Announcing my presence
To all and sundry
In the Summer foundry.