Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, art, certainty, frost, landscape, landscape photography, Mynyddoedd Cambrian Mountains, Poetry, spring, Wales, weather on April 21, 2020| Leave a Comment »
SPRING FROST
take this tight
fist of frost
sky knifed
star edge cold.
all night growing
winter chime
whispered seed.
Certain is
fools for fools
while the world turns.
Life and death
a blade edge breath
that flips and loves either.
The in and the out of it
that we would hold fixed
and steady as a sure eye.
King ‘til the Spring sun
smiles over the hill
and dreams of summer
quiet upon the air.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, autumn storms, ecology, floods, landscape, Poetry on October 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Into the slow heron lift of it
This stormy morning roar,
Like a city train, rattles roof and windows.
Druid trees with one eye shut
Stand on one leg and let go of nearly everything –
That is what their roots, deep as choirs, allow.
On green meadow and crashing hill
We push against a sting of rain.
Lost, but not lost as the ones by the sea,
Watching the waves eat the shore and the harbours drown
And all the long, safe years melted away
In a wall of water and sound.
It is a patient world, willing always to start again.
A reformulation of parameters, season by season.
What is gone is gone, the autumn trees say.
What is gone is gone, says the storm of grey morning.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, continuance, full moon, inheritance, landscape photography, night, November, Poetry, Powys, rain, the Eppynt, the past, Wales on November 7, 2014| 2 Comments »
KNIFE MOON
In the dark hills
Sons and daughters
Are learning how to kill,
Accurate remorselessness,
The wages of sin.
Down in the valleys
Translucent owls
Kill with God’s own
Gentle hand, guiltless
Down the hedgerows.
A knife moon glimmers,
Clouds severed
On a southern wind.
Out in the whispering,
Rainbow dark
The ghosts of shepherds,
Faithful dogs by their sides,
Long for the drifting flocks,
The steady roll of seasons.
Above the old forge,
The blacksmith’s arms
Aching with joy.
He dreams his cherry-red children,
A quenching thrust,
The soft pink blushing-
His sigh and smiling wife.
The warmth of our blood
We suck from the past.
Our heartbeat, passed on,
Down from when
Her eyes first opened.
We should be content
To simply sing our song
Then wait in silence,
Comforted.
Rain, again, on the glass.
Mist clings to the roots of hills.
The larch, tousled, twisted gold, leaning.
The grasses pale.
Warmth and good memory –
The past, our sweetest water.
A moderation for cold and bitter fires,
The burnished lies and stolen beauty.
—-
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, death, emptiness, end of suffering, grief, lament, life, low sun, Poetry, reflected light, requiem, return, sorrow, storm, storm passing, web, Winter on December 19, 2013| 12 Comments »
TURNED, GONE ON (requiem)
Stillness now, lost blue and empty silence.
After wracked storm, tearing breath,
Tangled rain. The howling
Has ceased, calm, calm.
Where sun reaches, there
Is hope of a little warmth.
But little warmth in shade,
Little warmth when the face
Turns away from light.
Calm void where you have gone,
Spacious, rested, freed from pain of time.
Naked void where you were,
Are, no longer.
The empty fields,
The stiff sloped horizon,
The days ahead unformed, vast.
These winter roads
Will lead to a surprise of spring,
But not soon, not soon.
Not before the world becomes ragged.
It must become ready, choosing, too,
Letting go what is,
Letting uncertainty bloom.
Too tired to breathe
One last slow, drawn out,
Whispered breath.
The void of skies
Fills slowly with new cloud dreams.
The scoured earth will clothe its scars
In new skins of green life.
The hollows will slowly fill,
The woods, they will be bound in birdsong.
It will become gentle, dancing once more.
But not soon,
Not soon.
—
simonhlilly 
Marginalia
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, art, comments, Dinas, fragments, human endeavour, landscape photography, May morning, Mid Wales, mind, openness, Poetry, spring, striving on May 24, 2017| 1 Comment »
MARGINALIA
below this turbulence:
slow, vast, are the currents.
Knotted threads soften, unwind
(As morning mists
In curling, upward sun).
The ghosts we hold most dear,
Those haunted voices we always hear,
That diffuse the endless night-
They come and go
As if they owned the place,
As if they mattered more.
They are so tiring,
These endless stumblings
Proudly towards truth,
Where simple goodness would suffice.
The broken-nailed, mad eyed dreamers,
The demon-fed preachers.
For we tumble towards a close,
And that is always and only certain.
Here, is the benign patience of Spring
Come again to remind us
That warmth will split the hawthorn blossom
(And the hills already drunk and hazy on it).
Just one sunny day,
and all we dream of
is summer.
A slow dance of swallows,
lambs and birdsong,
One blue warm billowy morning in May,
enough to banish all the long months
Of winter, to open and relax,
To build a nest
As if it were forever.
—
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