simonhlilly

CUCKOOS

Cuckoos in the woods by Llwyngweision

Where the bluebells are almost, almost.

And curlews have been heard again by Cefngast.

The world teeters on the brink of this and that,

As it has always been.

A moment of sunlight,

A morning of rain.

The blackcap and the blackbird,

Their music amongst the pines and gravestones,

Recalling, recalling, forgetting, forgetting.

Annabelle is to open up the chapel

For one who searches names of a lost family.

Sunlight will warm the dust there,

The chill bones of God smiling at the sound of voices.

She knows the names and stories

Of a hundred years, almost.

When she is gone it will all be scattered in the winds, most likely,

And fall in flakes like the carved names of holy ground,

Illegible and smudged in pools of slow pale lichen.

The past scooped out and swept away –

The grinning smooth rocks when the rivers here lies low

In their dark green scars.

Hold it all lightly, then.

The mornings come and go.

A squabble of sparrows,

One slow bee meanders under the windowsill.

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