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Posts Tagged ‘Mid Wales’

A cuckoo’s voice
rides the undulations
of the day.

Hardly a breath of wind,
but it will come on to rain later.

Sunday morning sun pushing towards brightness,
fades through lazy layered atmospheres.

The roads are quiet.
In an hour or two
the tourists will arrive
to see what life is all about.

They will whisper by,
Pass through in clean cars
and return tonight
to their city sleep,
Dreams of emptiness
and birdsong.

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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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PAKAD: CLOUDLESS SILENCE

It is a cloudless silence, a stretched skin of light,
White wheel of sun and moon, stars silver singing road,
Painted vast and edgeless, the deep rolling earth
Breathing in hills, dreaming in valleys.

Cloudless silence here
White light pierces winter mind.
The tumbling waters

Cloudless silence here
Lost in mist, crow calls its mate.
Cold air, dogs barking.

Cold breeze shifts the mist
Dogs bark in the distant town.
A cloudless silence

In cloudless silence
All these thoughts fall silent now.
Footsteps on the road.

A delicate touch
Keeping warm this egg of words.
New cloudless silence.

Three crows dancing song
Cold breeze on the snowcapped hill.
A cloudless silence.

Pakad, jor, alap.
A slow unfolding morning.
This cloudless silence.

A pakad is a theme in Classical Indian music. It is a short series of notes that identifies and characterises every raag. It appears and reappears throughout each piece of music. It is a constant moment of return to mood and purpose.
Alap is the slow development and investigation of the note sequences of a raag, a discovery of themes.
Jor is the section that continues the development within a more rhythmical framework.
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TRANSIENT 5

A day of slow skies
Testing new brightnesses.

Cwm Dwfnant is lost
In dreams of cloud once more.

In the green centre
The river whispers

And the crows feel that
Spring is near now, over the hills,

And sunlight, too,
In the slate and stately rise and exhale.

A sleeping world,
Dreaming of waking,

Dreaming of a small unfolding.

TRANSIENT 6

Tinder, the horizon.
Laid just so
With blue on blue
To catch spark and roar
Come sunrise.

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Time slides as the seasons slide,
One into the other.
As the sun slides and the moon slides.
Time slides as the days slide,
Toppling over and over,
Rolling as the sun rolls, as the stars roll.

Garn Goch is covered in cloud again.
A slow drift, wordless love.
Seeds of rivers, seeds of seas,
Collecting on the stiff sedge
That lodges between the tumbled rock.

All slides on,
A smooth falling dance
Through winter, through spring,
Through summer.
A green slide and a grey slide,
Sun and rain.

A slow smoke rises, offered.
River mist: opaque as snow, radiant.
And the calligraphy of oaks.

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The long song

1
Pwll Bo, where the waters swirl the colour of trout,
As brown as deep sunlight and the taste of peat.
Shadowed is the heathered hue ( whose voice
White as lightning sings to the oldest of things,
Though few may know it except the ghosts
Of wanderers lost and found by starlight,
And the fastness of owl-bright silence
And the stillness of hills in their watchfulness.)

Pwll Bo and then the Washpool and then on,
Down to the church and then the town.
Everything murmurs in its own language.
The river’s accent rushes from wild to soothing
To wild again.

Clouded, the eye of this precinct night
Lost in dream that seems to be remembrance, but is not.
A doppler drift of slow, utterly endless forgetting.

2
Singing the long song
Pwll Bo roars white and whispers.
Water turning hills to soil.

3
Pwll Bo
Spirit song
Mountains to soil
Sunlight to trees
Water to life.

Weaving sound
A throat of rock.
White, roaring water.

Hollowed rock
A mouth of song.
Thunder whispers.
Sunlight and shade.
A rivered voice.

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Ystrad FFlur 2

one door in an empty field.
a pattern of stone,
the chantry coves.

clouds are sheep and cattle
drifting slowly out of sight.

but for the peace you would not know
poets and kings were buried here.

we cannot stay
but maybe never leave,
like the pilgrim stream
whispering prayers
on cool, light feet.

like the tinted copper beech
and the hollowed yew.

like the faith of thousands
and the recitation of the birds.

the green edict of grass
has covered all dissent.

a spiral stair ascends
into empty air.

the old names adhere somehow,
the slow erosion of autumn rains.

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