It flowers with the breath,
Unfurls like a fern on the hill.
A cuckoo thing from somewhere else,
Desiring to belong, to be heard.
A voice rumbling with thunder,
A hiss of rain, a roar of wave,
A keening of curlew.
Nothing new, though,
nothing new can ever be said.
Before the flocks, before the engines,
Before the need to be somewhere else.
Kite and buzzard wheeled high above here.
On their upward soaring voice,
The voice of moving, warmed airs.
With vision open, fixed on hope,
Their hunger to remain.
Insistent is the voice of a silent land,
Holding those who care, to stand still a while to hear.
From the ground, and from beneath that,
It will rise up in its own time.
An uncurling, a reaching thread,
A line of a melody,
A translucent tusk of language.
In the waters, between field and wood;
In the moments, as cloud shades and passes;
Before certainty and after doubt;
A voice weighs and judges its own worth.
The verses shall all bow down, bright-browed.
Prophecy is the love-child of thought.
Lost souls, reborn, eager to take flight again.
The root of my tongue is locked to a syllable of light.
A spark electric, a leap between precipitous cliffs:
The long darkness of being, the long darkness of non-being.
A slim, swaying golden chain
Rising up to eternity,
Sinking to iron-cold oceans.
It shall not cease til it ceases,
Takes breath, and speaks again:
The whispering of rock and stream and soil.
A mother’s voice, never lost.
simonhlilly 
Marginalia
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, art, comments, Dinas, fragments, human endeavour, landscape photography, May morning, Mid Wales, mind, openness, Poetry, spring, striving on May 24, 2017| 1 Comment »
MARGINALIA
below this turbulence:
slow, vast, are the currents.
Knotted threads soften, unwind
(As morning mists
In curling, upward sun).
The ghosts we hold most dear,
Those haunted voices we always hear,
That diffuse the endless night-
They come and go
As if they owned the place,
As if they mattered more.
They are so tiring,
These endless stumblings
Proudly towards truth,
Where simple goodness would suffice.
The broken-nailed, mad eyed dreamers,
The demon-fed preachers.
For we tumble towards a close,
And that is always and only certain.
Here, is the benign patience of Spring
Come again to remind us
That warmth will split the hawthorn blossom
(And the hills already drunk and hazy on it).
Just one sunny day,
and all we dream of
is summer.
A slow dance of swallows,
lambs and birdsong,
One blue warm billowy morning in May,
enough to banish all the long months
Of winter, to open and relax,
To build a nest
As if it were forever.
—
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