At Fiesole

I shall remember this terrace wall Of stones too hot to touch This August afternoon When I seek shelter on a Bitter winter's day Beneath some drystone wall Of our own Pennine heights, And gaze down, not on Brunelleschi's dome, now Floating in the heat-hazy air Beside the sluggish Arno, But across frost-bound fields To where a snow-filled stream Rushes in full spate to join The Ouse, the Humber, and The cold North Sea.