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Posts Tagged ‘landscape photography’

The minutes crack open and bleed cold.

Breath is chapped and hesitant in semi-quavers, a minor key.

The hawk is ice that hunts unrepentant the mountain heights.

Slay complacent warmth, the fickle needs of small hearts.

The flutter of joy, cackle of crow.

A silent field: whiteness extends to the very mists of deep mind.

Carved walls at the edges of space, words written there:

We are extinguished and free.

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THE ROSES

The roses

They have been in bud

For months

Through sun and rain.

Now they open,

Bloom for a day or two

Giving joy to all,

Then fade and

Fall apart.

The roses.

The roses.

They throw off their beauty

Like dancers.

They value more

Their roots

And their thorns.

The blood red hips,

The hard won strength

To go on.

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THEIR NAMES

Their names are the doors they wait behind.

Dreaming, dreaming, they thus dream us.

A silver moon scythes the snow fruit that admits us.

Timeless is the round dance of breath.

There is constant war in heaven, and hunting,

And fast, hot seduction.

How else, otherwise, could it be here?

The stars pour themselves into the hills.

There will be ice upon the marshes.

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A small breath of wind lifts the mist ‘til more blows in.

Two days, three days frost, has melted

And the birds are in the leaf litter.

The mountain’s voice says

‘Winter is not over yet’

But here in the valleys there is a small respite.

A day or two, perhaps, of gentler thoughts.

The world revolves around us here.

There is lamentation and the groans of fools from afar.

The waves, perceptible and arcane,

Encroach on the plans of contented futures.

But here, for a day or two,

Will be blue calm and the hope

Of buds and roots.

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CHRISTMAS NIGHT, CHRISTMAS MORNING

The moon strides through mist.

He is one: half-dead, half-reborn.

The garden is all jet and water –

The black shadow that is time and space.

There is no truth here but stories,

Is what we learn if we live long enough.

The river in its shroud, past the silent graveyard.

Nothing for you to do but weep and sing,

Says the sighing pines.

Nothing but to find beauty here and sing it,

Says the sighing pines.

And the stars look down in envy.

They would fold their wings and walk

These muddy, leaf-strewn paths.

They would feel the cold air of morning,

Let go of hope and fear,

Sing with sun and sparrows.

Would build their small fires,

Feast on emptiness and fullness.

Eternity weaving clothes for itself.

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HARD RAIN

Hard rain washing the world away.

Leaves fall through cooling air.

The gutters are singing an autumn song.

Rivers wake from summer’s sleep.

I was dreaming of eagles and their turquoise voice

In the days where darkness drums down more suddenly

And the cold cannot any longer be shrugged off.

I was dreaming of a path that was a spiral

And a spiral that was a mirror.

I stand before a silent oak.

Its name is eternal song,

Retribution, its door.

Its mouth is darkness.

In the end we do not know what matters.

This curl of sound, this exhalation of breath

Might be enough for a universe to be complete.

I study the taste of this turquoise,

Turn it between cold fingers

Then walk into the hill ( for all hills are doorways).

If you follow the hare, the path shall lie

Flat as grass before a strong wind.

If you follow the deer, the path shall be

Dappled and filled with birdsong.

If you follow the otter, the path will be

Silver and smooth as moonlight.

If you follow the dead,

Returning to their places,

You shall find your path

To womb and fireside

And questions: why and whereto.

All the warm singing halls

Lost in mist and blood.

All the familiar is a lie.

The world is utter strangeness

And the stars, known but unnamed.

I have been a trowel, an eagle, a pen.

What has been put together, falls apart.

These dreams you do not own.

Each is borrowed to keep you warm.

The path is a name you do not know.

This world is all the clue you will get.

Wrapped and unwrapped, each day a reminder.

There is no greater fool than a poet,

No greater truth than the lie of poetry.

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THE LEDGERS

I have been collecting the names

of demons from dusty ledgers,

Each a fossilised passion or despair.

Every one a poet and a diva,

Conceited, numerous as neurons

In the brains of man.

Some starved, some sated.

It is the nameless ones

We should be fearing most,

Whose attributes and legions are unlisted.

It is they that twist the fibres of time and space,

That lead us down reasonable paths

To utter foolishness.

They bear the bitterness of millennia being ignored,

Sidelined by brassy, golden heroes.

Volcanic, metamorphic, sedimentary –

They constitute, certain, a slow wearing bedrock.

They know too well the mountains and horizons we long for

Are all relentless and prone to murder.

Dressed in orifices of delight and disgust,

The greatest demon is the one that teaches

That there are no such things as demons,

Denying all history, mocking the laboured divisions

Of day and night, and reasons why,

Filleting the intellect from all shining breath.

They are well-beloved now in sharp suits,

Eloquent in Greek and Latin, they dream in Sanskrit,

Swear in Aramaic, count in Japanese.

They name and number every combination

Of moral gymnastics.

They are masters of the callisthenics of judgement,

Ballroom dancers of complete seduction.

They are the best of us, who best us.

We, the sly self-harmers of evolution,

Ingenious inventors of delusional druggery.

They are dressed in war and holiness

( as we could tell the difference).

All they need is a little time, a little understanding.

‘Sit you down, take us through your thinking.

We will listen.’

Non-judgmental, professional, just taking

One or two salient notes.

Paring off slices of soul for real estate

At bargain rates, a place to retire to,

With excellent views.

‘But look’, they say,

‘We are nothing

But patterns of thought.

Born, nurtured, clothed,

Given names.

Exercise us,

we will become domesticated,

The new normal.

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SOLSTICED

.

Garth Bank is a mind

Resting in silence.

.

Bryn and Y Garn

Become domed and spacious.

Valley rivers make no noise-

The whole world stands still.

.

The cold of eternal space

Touches the edge

Of our certainty.

.

So we cling

To an ephemeral fullness

And watch a blue distance

Grow warm in haze,

.

Nested in comfortable notions,

The children of cracked worlds.

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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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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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