Posts Tagged ‘april’

Light-hammered days.
Green burnished boughs.
Always this beginning
Scoured by cold winds.
Here and gone before we know it.
Birdsong too intricate to remember –
This woven life
With subtlest changes,
The dream repeats.
Though you might wish it,
There are no lessons to learn.
All the stories, a foam of blackthorn,
Blossoming suddenly everywhere.
Taste this now, it will soon be gone.
Gone to return, a somewhat different song,
Called out from another valley,
A little nearer, a little farther off.

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Someone who believes the voices in their head
Are worth listening to,
Who shapes a voiceless howl
And paints peacock the grey goose feathers.

Bitter or sweet is its confection,
But flown, not owned.
A convection of breath muttered,
Cooling fast to silent shuffling.
A spark to set heads alight.
A bird at dawn joining in, joining in.

So very modern, so social, so angst.
Shaped anger, a certain brittle brilliance
(Too many pills, too many movies).
Judge not, lest ye be judged.

My colours are earth ochre and mud:
They blur and smudge and taste
As bitter sweet as old iron.
Red is not better than blue.
Nothing but our breath
Is not borrowed,
And that is shared with ghosts.

If I pick a posy of weeds
And small insects
It shall likely be thrown away
By evening, change within a day
To wilt and slime and compost.

A river of muscular words,
Knowing their trajectory,
Slick with fitting exercise,
Polished, glancing slyly
At themselves in mirrors.
Mine: are orphaned, skulk
Adolescent in corners
Wishing they were anything,
Anywhere but here, ignored,
Misunderstood, awkward
With self and not-self,
Ready to punch
And run away screaming.

Small curses and bitterness,
A sweet green wormwood of words,
Unfashionable as Homer and the ‘Seventies.
Nothing if not shaped air,
A moments held tight and wriggled free,
Regardless of reputation
And good sense.

Outside my window
The world tips towards a hidden river.
Every tree and field a palimpsest of seasons.
Boughs thick with time shudder and bend,
Hold their taut silhouettes.
Tangled, indistinguishable are their roots,
Their eloquent green tongues.

A patch of blue sky
The shape of continents
Slides across the sky,
Dissipating like smoke
Slowly turning.
First drops of April rain.

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Passionate lovers,
These winter and spring days.
March and April,
How they so
Tear at each other, caress
With smiles,
Fall together,
Push apart, preen,
Rush oblivion and break
As waves at high tide
On each other’s panting flesh.
Seeds dashed,
Rainbows unfurl,
Sudden sun, dark squall,
A mating in time and space,
Conjunction of contraries.

Moon worn thin
High north wind
Spring thaw.

Half a moon
Ice in the river
Slowly melting.

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The underside of heaven
A grey rolling, folded softness
Pushed gently, refiguring the light.

Messenger birds slide between worlds.

Settled and slow, layered in shells of skin,
Webbed, skeined, we solidify, objectify,
Await outcomes, anchor the ineffable.

Soon, and suddenly, there shall be green leaves.
A day or two of sun, a change of wind.
This pale stretched time will melt.
Hatched and brilliant will be the morning sun.
We shall remember what we have forgotten
And forget the simplicity of folded light.
Birdsong, bright edge and shadow;
The scent of hyacinths, the scent of mown grasses;
The roar of beauty as time flickers.
A brimstone butterfly in golden morning.

These words: a map back to my soul
Perhaps for another to discover
Where cold ashes still mark the place
I could not remain.

These words: a map back through dream to memory,
A resuscitation of hours and senses.
What is lost, gathered again –
A tide scouring, reforming the sands,
Never to be the same, though not so much changed.
The roar of time as beauty flickers.

Rain-wet morning
Cool on my brow
The blessing of doves

The blessing of doves
Soft chanting from treetops
Grey, heavy clouds

Grey, heavy clouds,
What is there missing?
Only the voice of the cuckoo.

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A flood of gold
Danaƫ sighs
Morning sun.


Owl call
A single star


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