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Posts Tagged ‘landscape’

EXTRACTING BEAUTY FROM ENDLESS SORROWS

A fine Spring day
(though only a city-dweller
would believe that winter is over).
The thrush is singing
in the chapel pines
and on the hills
the thud of bombs.
A woodpecker is drilling
in the valley,
(or is it machine guns
over the ridge?)

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CALM ABIDING ON WILD PONY MOUNTAIN

Facing the silent mountain
I sit listening to the wind.
Thoughts like streaming clouds
Come and go.
Only the weight of woven sunlight
Keeps me here, shaped by colours,
And the road through the valley
That promises still so much.

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STORM PASSING

Sway , as wind makes the grasses.
Here then there (but silence in the soil still).
It, breathing, roars. Tears away what breath there is.
It, moving, alights and passes through all, a sudden thing.
It, breathing, shudders the solid, twists each sound.
The singing fires dance free and the slope of wings as sharp as scythes.
Sedge, winter dry, rattles with a serpent’s hiss.
On tip-toe we scramble homewards, whipped eyes watering.
Such a small thing, this flush of weather. Half a day
Flooded with impecable instants of translucent uncertainty.
And we, made small again and frail by ineffable, invisible airs.

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LUMINOUS 2

The day has no horizons
aimless we are where we wander.

short hours lost, dressed in silence
free of consequence, free of purpose.

as if the world were just created,
six days gone and the seventh, wondering.

the burden of memory not yet felt,
luminous ghosts of joy in luminous surrender.

and the hum of bees
or distant traffic
or chanting.

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SNOW SEQUENCE

River words turn running slow.
To see, to say, to move on.
A winter’s day has little warmth.

A winter’s day has little warmth.
We huddle around our hearts,
Crunch bowed through snow.

Crunch bowed through snow
Finding footprints to keep to,
White hollows the slipping lanes.

White hollows the slipping lanes.
Lines of hedge float empty
Cold smudges reasons to move.

Cold smudges reasons to move.
Time falls in flakes ending all.
Weighted we bob, suddenly uncertain.

Suddenly uncertain,
This is not the world we own nor shape.
Even names for things have dissappeared.

Even names for things have disappeared.
The river mutters between teeth of ice.
Slick and black the waters smirk.

Slick and black the waters smirk.
Glass cold whispers sliding by.
River words turn running slow.

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CHAPEL PINES

Gosen chapel now is grey and silent.
hard to keep warm
without the wrath of God.

filled twice, filled thrice a year
when the dog-tired farmers, or
their small, steadfast wives, turn, turn and
return, to the sleepy earth
they are made from.

jackdaws in the chapel oak
are the black-clad preachers now,
and the line of pines that divide
the living from the dead, and the west wind
that scours the marshy fields,
joining together in dreary, beautiful psalms.

they keep the view open to the empty hills:
the wandering constellations of sheep,
the souls of these departed lovers,
grazing the lovely green.

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CWM DWFNANT (2)
(Our geography)

It does not dwell here
It does not stay.
Coming and going in mists
Dissolved to spirit
Absently haunting
The green valley quiet.

Its wings are white shadows
Milk dropped in pools
A cleft, a demure device,
Dark and luscious mystery
Hovered near madness
Far too far from reasonable reasons.

It dwells otherwise, a dark language
Spoken backwards.
Returning time to itself,
A rotating quern of years and miles.
A mighty sign at the corner of the eye.

Blessings to the world-weary
That strip the meat back to bone,
Break the bone to feed on sweet hidden marrow.

The lick of mist, the lick of its still wrist,
Far-flung, a throat of words
Pushed back deep into the hills.

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