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We rise

WE RISE

We rise late
And tumble down
Towards it all:

A day suggested, infused,
Green and sunlit
Cloud and birdsong.

This late white
Bitter honey of May,
A mother’s scent,
A sparkled dew.

Strange a Delight

A feathered crouch
Cool and slewed wind

Mountains hunch
Shuffle in and out

Tides of rain
A slow long tune.

A green nation
Rules the cuckoo’s voice

Stretched long the river rings
Vivid is the wood

Tousled the tall larch
Fathoms deep the bluebell haze

Grey and dappled
All sorrow weighed with joy

In tonsured cities
Days careful are numbered
Then forgot.

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OWL-HEADED DAKINI DREAM

Owl-headed, lithe, folded,
Feathered.
Shock thundered voice:
Scythe words,
Harrow words,
Winnowed,
Fine-limbed spells.
Fingertipped, a weaving sined spin,
A cast out dance.

Sunlit surge in blue, fat sky.
A thousand green tongues
Hallowed.
Treasures rain,
Brushed light on lips.

Arched span a wing across.
Star chased, a trembled cascade.
Breathed dust, the burst
Before thought, bubbled,
Swirled, bowed.

Lean in, lean close.
A criss-crossed hum,
A bee jewelled drone
Truth stitched.

Skull bowl brain meal.
Glistening viscera
Steam slithered open.
All, all revealed.

My voice, a lute, a cuckoo.
A call distanced
By the fathoms of spring.

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IN THIS SHOUTING WORLD (Book of Voices)

There is no wisdom here
Or if there is
It is likely lost leaves caught spinning
In a roar of water tumult
Hardly caught sight of
There and gone
Swept down, swept down
To sink and settle
In oceanic darkness
The weight of it
Firing the engine:
The slow grind of tectonics,
Subsumed, subducted,
Ground down, incorporated,
Incorporate, a whisper lost,
Composted dust.

If there is light
It holds to the edges:
Irredeemable grey plateaux
Bitter the mica dust,
Bitter the cold distance.

If there are roads
They have been deserted
Too often followed
Lame, looted, lost
Abandoned the distinct
And destinations dismissed
Hollowed out, hungered.

If there were cause
All has been strangled thin
Worn out with wanting
With too much with not enough
With wasted words
Washed veinless worthless words
Given up, blown away,
Blown away.

If there were wisdom
It would sit down and weep.

PWYLL BO (continued)

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There are streams and there are pools,
Gradients of speed, time and temperature,
A swelling and a cascade of moments.
Phenomena to clothe attention,
Voids to place memories within.

The paths of scent and heartbeat
Wander through landscapes,
Unseen but persistent:
They mould the seasons of emotion,
The tides of joy and despair
We think we seem to own.

How came the spirit to Pwyll Bo?
Born was it from scoured stone,
Water tongues speaking water language?
Inchoate become cadent rhythm,
Song become meaning become message,
Whispers mirrored, hollows filled.
There before, or only after, the wept
And lost wondering?

There is a quicksilver veil,
A something shimmer that,
Once touched, ripples forever.

So restless a wanderer,
The dew of his holiness on every meadow,
Churches sprang up in Dewi’s footprints.

This dream so unlike that dream,
Remembered backwards, becoming familiar:
His prayers, her tears, wellsprings,
Mouths of howling and hymns, stones with mouths.

Just so and more
The glow of set suns on warm earth,
A day begun and gone,
A day to come through long night.

We become our own pool, haunted,
Becoming vague, portenteous,
Oracular as thunderstorms.

Flowered feet, rooted stillness,
A mouth full of blossom.
His feet, our feet,
Her tears, our tears.
Owls in the valley,
Blackbirds amid cloud mists.

As every river knows,
We are not what we seem to be,
Not so steady, not so constant.
A permiable impermanence,
A vessel unable to choose its content.

To taste, shape and let go,
A flow of song, a chorus,
Cascades of little moments,
But enough to shape mountains,
Enough to flood oceans,
A silver rippled pool dissolving time and space,
A breathing landscape generating names.

Pwyll Bo ( part 1)

Pwyll Bo, “Pool of the wraith”, is a wooded, rocky cascade of the River Irfon on the road up the Abergwesyn valley, a few miles from where I live. Downstream, stranded now in silence, but once the heart of Llanwrtyd, the old church site of St. David’s on a small spur of hillside around which the ascending road curls. Saint and spirit, a confluence of notions.

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PWYLL BO (1)

Mountain air threads mist in valley sleep.
We dreamless lie, cherishing weight.
Up at Pwyll Bo, I suppose, the lean, green larches
Will stand roaring down the dawn winds.
The oaks, staid grey and still on their slanted hill.
The otter shall sink and roll, melting to water.
Mossed rock wet, endless white the tumble.
Ever hollow spans the spirit’s song, a haunted bridge.

The winding path to delight is to be walked not run.
Time given to sliding slow eyes, side on side,
To stop and to forget.
This breath the church of all gods,
The heart’s Holy Ghost light woven.
Time enough for long blue days
And the dead slowly revolving
On the hillside church
Wriggling back to earth and seed.
Their heads now risen green, unfurled,
A dappled Trump each last and every day.

Unknown things travelling down
Are woven, whirled and worded.
Skein thin spirit clothed and given sight.
A voice, even, from rock and worried water.
Grasped and clothed its essence sings,
The illusory cling of names forgot,
The savoured winding sheet of waves
And pillowed, folded rocks.
It says, it says:
The confluence of all rivers is the ocean.
The confluence of all words is the heart.

Shall it cleave to the warmth of sunlight,
Wood avens and violets on the bank?
Or shall it bend into moonlight,
Emptying all in cool rest, the starlit air?
Or long longing, wait for drifting careless breath
Warm bodies dabbled, absent stares,
To speak heard and unheard,
Noticed yet unrecognised?

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Clouds flower

Clouds flower in moonlight.
A wind rises, full of owls.

Cold that will wither the buds,
The sun will make right.

Far away, mountains have fallen.
What was, has crumbled.

We dream and dream and fall through time.
Each view infused, each moment passing.

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