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A CUCKOO IN THE NEST

A cuckoo see-saws in the sunny dregs of May.

All the fractured warriors, pale and bloodless,

Sink into the seed-filled soil.

The winners and losers are the ones

Who laid out these fine roads.

So we can trust no other paths

Through the oak deep woods and sun-warmed cliffs.

They have buried their gold here and there

Like dinosaur eggs, cold hope and useless,

Without the thrusting love of bees.

We shall walk among the dead and borrow their dreams.

Bred for an ostentatious perfection

The roses strangled by a sea of happy weeds.

Yet we take the rose for our badge:

The blowsy, failing, propped and preening dream

Of old men and fanatics, and fight the weeds together.

The cuckoo mocks the sunny morning.

Innocence supplanted by an unbuilt guile.

The world see-saws on precipitance.

The stars, at least, remain, untouched

By this busy arrogance of being.

How many times shall I sing the same song,

O, Enitharmon? Until the long grey rains

Wash all footsteps away?

Gronw, Gronw, that stone over your heart shall not save you.

It will be laid out: the failings of desire and the roads of gold.

It shall all be sundered by the returning soul,

The tides of people, a song of weeds.

Sweet smelling idiots, the tiered hierarchies of perfect moments.

We have longed for its return – the resonant, ephemeral cuckoo.

But now its constant echo palls. It is no bard, but pure politician.

It ousts the futures of others, counts away choices, one by one.

The roads that are reasonable, are inevitable.

You had the choice a long time ago, if you recall, to be a hero

Or to fall safely into those ruts of good and equitable habit.

We have been charmed down from the tree now,

Given a voice, and we must fill the role assigned us.

To heave the future from its nest, watch it crack

Against the stones, and pray for food to still sustain us.

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GOLDEN MERIDIAN

“Here at the centre of things.”

(There at the centre of things),

“We see everything and hear everything.

How the chorus of dawn is continuous,

How the shadow, like a wave,

Retreats from the light around the world’s edge.

How the light, like a wave, retreats

From the shadow and silence of night

With owls and thunder.”

There is one here,

( there is one there),

Dressed in liquid gold

Like a summer river,

Like a wood filled with birdsong.

He says:

“If you wish to be more

Than you are now,

You must learn to suspend your knowing.”

He says:

“Your in breath is the outbreath of another.

Your outbreath is the inbreath of another.

She says:

“Look. Listen.

The birds of dawn

Forever singing.”

She says:

“Look. Listen.

The eternal stars

Forever resting

In cool midnight silence.”

He says:

“Beginnings and endings are words.

Life and death are words.

To travel beyond words

Is a road few follow.

All those here are dancers.

Movement comes before sound.”

She says:

“There are no questions

That cannot be answered

With more questions.”

He says:

“Eternal sunrise.

Eternal twilight.

We admit those

Who have forgotten their names,

Only.

What is your name?”

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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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A LIGHT TOUCH

Every demon knows the trick with butterfly’s wings.

Tesserae, perturbation.

The small becoming great.

An oceanic instability, a gram shifting,

A star dissolving into endlessness,

A thought let loose and floating,

A pinch of plutonium.

Weights and measures,

The weighing-up of Newtonian Laws:

Every demon is a mathematician at heart,

At home in the seventh hell of statistics.

Every scintilla collected, each iota measured,

Each ember sustained with warm breath.

Last straws gathered and categorised.

For everything begins with an itch,

A discomfort, a desire for other.

The angelic hosts slay ninety-nine

Point nine nine of the unrighteous.

The demons nurture the resistant few.

They know that majorities are powerless.

That it is the minority that always spark a new inferno,

That say: why? That plot and saw through the bars,

That dig out the mortar with their fingernails.

The invisible, the insignificant, the disregarded, the despised.

The debris of universes drifting together.

The small becomes great. No blame.

The well has run dry. Nothing furthers.

Seek elsewhere for survival.

The fittest have slaughtered each other.

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BONES

Do you hear your bones speaking?

Of the groaning glaciers and the ice waters

Released from the dark caves.

Of the small things you do not weigh up.

Of the large things, so large you are oblivious.

Of the earth swaying on tip-toe

To see the glorious horizons

That the gods dream of.

Of the rumble of sunlight

Piercing the hillside cairns.

Of the feathered footsteps

Of the reborn.

Under the still shade of the yew trees

Your bones speak,

But all you feel is fear.

The tipping point, the cliff edge.

Fingertips turn to pinions,

A hunger for corpses.

You can never steal the gold

That is the due of the gods,

Nor the silver that is the blood of the moon.

It shall all be returned.

That is what your bones say.

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MAY MORNING ROAD

I shall set before me this road,

Laid out across the misty cool morning.

I shall set it to wander between

What I know and what the world knows.

The light that pushes through the stretched hopes

Stretches green and upwards

Where the clouds melt and thin

To impossible blue.

I shall tie this road here

And let it wander between it all.

Gods would fight an eternity to be here.

They would gather murmuring like bees

To be fed on this transient translucence.

It moves lightly, this road, with nowhere to go.

It revolves around its own curiosity,

A certain lightness, familiar but untrodden.

It tastes a certain way, delicate between the cuckoos.

It will go a distance

Before it finds

It has not moved at all.

Admittance to the centre of all things.

It shimmers with breath,

This May morning road.

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Take away the words

( that give stories to the silences of doubt)

And there is still the song of the river,

The roaring in the pines,

The light rolling over the ever-changing hills.

Mist rises and the clouds roll past.

There is no need to fill the seconds,

That are already so full of mystery,

With anything other than this.

We are ghosts

Unless we feed on this glory.

We are starved of succour,

Only feeding on our own reasons.

Offer your silence, now and then,

In the early morning, in the dusk.

Now and then, listen

To how eternity sings.

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Because of their words:

A quantum entanglement.

Whether equation or story,

The ripples vibrate.

All metaphor is truth.

All truth, metaphor.

So said Euron.

So said Eurwys.

They wrap the bones

Of space in pictures.

Weave timelessness

With heroes.

By means of language

And of matter

They fashion magnificent trees,

The span of universes,

A melodious ocean.

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BLESSINGS OF THE MOON

What are the blessings of the moon?

Return, return.

What is worn away,

What is consumed,

What is lost.

Returned, returned.

No diminishing of light.

No perturbation of path.

Return, return.

Is the blessing of the moon.

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LANK GRASS

Lank grass leaks light.

Meagre is the wan sun.

The hillside’s low shudder

Shoulders a cold wind.

To and fro the white flocks weave.

The black flocks waver, settle

And disperse in fields.

Time does not pass

That is not sweetly savoured:

Cloaking us in eternal radiance,

An infinity of brilliant shadow.

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