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Posts Tagged ‘landscape photography’

GOOD FRIDAY

from the mist: the hills.
clouds attempt the memories of things,
but fail and find instead broad brightnesses.

there is birdsong in the valley (may there ever be),
and ravens in the cascading sky.
a wash of calling sheep, heading for food.

we feel the older weaving, thread-worn, familiar,
a whisper of what it was, (though still greater than us).
it is in the blood: this dying and longing and silence,
an intimation of the beyond coming closer,
the hidden web knotted together.

the sure, gnarled fingers of compassion,
patient Mother Spring
and the story of the son.

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CWM GRAIG DDU

Yesterday the ravens were dancing.
Now, this east wind has scoured the skies
To a perfect frozen blue.

Dark, bruised by cold,
Cwm Graig Ddu, sunless, looks out,
Dreaming of rivers.
Its sheep: philosophical rocks,
Waiting for Spring.

Bitter cold.
Bright sunlight.
Trees dream
In the dark valley.

Hours pass.
Gazing out.
Hunting words.

Calibration of sorrows –
A mountain view.

An empty road
Still finds its destination.
All music sits upon its silence.
A sweet sap comes after winter sleep.
By slow breath the cauldron bubbles.

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RAINY SUNDAY

cloud comes down.
a light rain.
gazing out.

tending the fire:
it roars gently in the hearth.
no need for thought.

tending the fire.
a bird flies across.
white mind.

a bird flies across space
leaving no trace
but in the mind’s eye.

nothing to see
beyond the window.
spider scurries
across the sky.

low cloud.
spider scurries
across the sky.
distant hills.

white mists –
breath of the ancestors
whispering between birdsong.

snow banks
on distant slopes:
whiter than the mist,
whiter than the cloud.

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THE CORNERS OF SPACE

Follow the sun beyond the horizon
And there will never be a sunset,
Never a horizon.

The old poets knew this – that their voice
(River and root of it) runs through distance
And no ends are there to those meanings.
Each sound, a door to deeper dimensions.

(No owls tonight, though a slivered, smiling moon.
Between the song of the pines and the river:
Restless tumbling dreams.)

Here is the vertiginous well of the sky
And its steps, and its chambers.
The view of horizons and their echoes.

(Confusion arises with questions:
Clouds billow and change shape;
Gravity has little hold in dream states
Except by habit.)

Circumference, the vastness of mind,
The corners of space, encompassed
By a single breath,
Dissolves on exhalation.
A rainbow disease brought to a stunning collapse –
Endless blue.

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TALIESIN REVOLVES

The Living and the Dying:
Dipping in, dipping out, spinning, turning, returning.
This string, this blue cord, this mysterious line.

Slipping past the gatekeeper of dawn and sunset,
The dream rim, horizon’s cauldron.

The answer to crafty questions.
No one survives the heroic ideal,
Except transformed, ploughed back into and out of Time,
Through the door of the fortress that turns.

These ancient watching animals in the stream
Of the constellations, time creators outside of time.
Watch the movements from the physical to the ethereal.

“I underwent transformations, I circulated.”
Time is his landscape,
The bardic occupation of weaving the past into the present,
Kneading the present back into the past, the past into the present.

I was alive.
I was dead
About the aeons of the fortress,
About the one’s like kings,
How long their dwelling place.

I slept on a hundred islands,
In the seas of heaven, the firmament.

I mutated, I went around,
I am dissolved and passed through,
Strained and purified.

He passes through. He slices through.
The darkness, not understood until death comes.
Cian, Afagddu, Gwiwan.

O dyfynwedyd gwawt

The deep speaker, the speaker from the deep,
Passionately brought forth.
Not the quietness.

The deep ones emerge in the voice
Of the bard and the audience,
A flow above the shining drink.

The deep one becomes flesh

Dwfyn dyfu ygnawt

The shapeshifter,
Singing his own deathsong,
Uther, dead and singing,
Becomes Taliesin by this voice.

Nothing but skin and bone.

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the year sweeps seasons
like a passionate cloud
from these soft hills.

and the bitter cold is here
and the turbulent waters
and the fire that talks loud and soft,
singing of snakes and angels in the grate.

and the hush-now, hush-now of cars
speeding past to work in the draughty town.

the trees dark and bare
sliced in thin moonlit night.

yesterday, the deep, blue-shadowed snow.
now, a knifing wind, a fast melt
and word of valley floods.

bless the bones of things,
though they may ache and ache.
on bitter slope the memories slide.
it is a thin sinew
holds everything together.

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SOAR Y MYNYDD

Where we rest
Deep in the mountains:
Soar y Mynydd

Hung in autumn air
Its white walls glowing:
Riverside chapel

Neat as it may be:
A congregation of leaves
Patiently waiting.

Soar y Mynydd.
Even when people have drifted away
The river sings hymns.

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