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Posts Tagged ‘landscape.art’

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LLEU’S FLOWERS

These days, though I hardly close my eyes,
the dreaming words of my mouth
are the sea all things seem to float upon.
Time shifts and slows but moves as winds and rivers
over the fog-washed mountains and away.
Slim chance of anything better
than a cool oblivion in green woodland.
Little hope of acceptance for all
when our leaders glance sideways, checking exits
and their scripted equivocations.
Little has been learned, war is still the best hope:
a simple reason to wipe it all away.
Avoidance of doing good, we prefer instead outrage,
needing vast and sudden emotion to feel alive.
We were vessels for immortality,
though no longer immortal ourselves,
our minds wedded to mud and angels.
It may be days before the prophecies settle and nest.
Or it may be that this turbulent nonsense will grow and grow
until we do not notice it any more,
becoming content with an artificial intelligence,
considering it an apogee
and not the abject failure of the power of human love.
Who shall sing us down from the rotting tree?
Who bother to search us out and sing us down
to a new and whole body on the green earth?


The mountain’s breath.
Dark rivers hiss, touched by starlight.
Owls are dreaming with eyes wide open.
Small things appear and dissappear.
A spiral silence weaves upon itself.
This oak feeds upon my shattered fragments.
The fire burns low.
The mind of man steps out of sight.
A low tide roars.

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GHOST POETS OF THE T’ANG

These exiled poets
Lost in cloud
Nothing to do now
Except compose
Haunted verses.
A wash of ink
Smudged with mist
And tears.
The real
And the unreal
Melting away

On their way
To the fields
The peasants glance
Sideways
Through open windows.
The threadbare
Silks, the padded robes,
The soft hands
Of government men.
Gazing out
Painting and poetry
And wistful regret,
Awaiting the whisper
Of city assassins.

Here now, between
the pleasant mountains
Green and deserted,
Viewing the long mists
From picture windows.
Centrally heated,
Supplies by van
From city stores
Who satnav the lanes
And slur the
Names they dare not
Learn to pronounce
( the old language of
Rain and rock and poetry).
Somewhere beautiful
To die
If die we must.
Deserted by children
Who promised to visit
Often, who came once
A long time ago
But prefer somewhere
Where there are shops
And ready entertainments
And motorways
To speed through
Undistracted.
To be kept busy,
To not notice time
Drifting away.
We shall coffee morning,
We shall do our weekly tai chi
Our monthly bingo;
Attempt gardening
Between the showers;
Seek and find some
Contentment,
Like Manawyddan
And Pryderi,
Hunting through derelict lands,
Until that thunderous roar,
That small, relentless whisper
Changes everything
And we slip
Slip from memory,
An ink drawing
Washed away
In the endless
Rains.

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Walking further than intended
A river breeze in the tree tops
And below, streams of birdsong.

The grasses are shooting green
But still in forest shade
The violets in full bloom.

A running stream
A cowslip sky.
At the forest’s edge,
The scent of green.

Deep in the woods
Violets bloom where no-one sees.
Perfected in themselves,
Complete within silence.

Allowed to breathe here
By the forest’s edge
This cowlip sky
A river wind in the treetops.

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LLYM AWEL Verse 9

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Ottid eiry o dv riv;
Karcharaur goruit, cul biv;
Nid annuyd hawdit hetiv.

“Snow fall on the side of the slope;
The horse is prisoner, the cattle thin;
It is nothing like a summer day today.”

1
Snow leans on the low slopes
Rain slants here in the valley
Cold slides from the hillsides,
Shades the day, the bitter night.
For weeks now no grass grows,
The horses stamp and mutter.

2
The world is hobbled
Stalled by snow
Nothing can be done
But wait
Counting ribs
Thin in hunger chains.
Cold airs slide white slopes
The valley’s continual rain slant.
In the dark
A horse lifts up a foot,
Puts down a foot.
Time is that slow,
Rolling down to emptiness.

3
We ache
With soft remembrance:
The scents of summer.
Mudsplashed and wan
Our churned meadow,
The heavy roof.
Huddled,
We long
For long sleep
And a dream or two
Of love and feast
And brightness.

4
The skies billow like oceans,
The stars, a long blizzard.
We are roofed in darkness
And a sunless weight.
The manacles of iron cold,
The chains of frost.
Bitter is the taste of winter days,
An ivy crown, a holly bed.
Poor animals, all of us,
Declining.

5
We can not dream of summer –
Those few, spiced, long days.
Souls float free from skin,
All the sky to move within.

We can not do but what we must
To flick off the gnaw of cold
And bite of hunger.

We cling to the swirling skirts of winter,
Dare not let go.
To fall too far,
Too thin to rise,
Too far to hope.
We must stay
Within our means
And shrink our dignity
Day by day.

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