Violet blue
The bluebell haze.
Twisted, threaded,
Through and through
The oak green.
The shadow dropped
From big-breasted hills
Rolling in waves:
Valley’s deep sigh.
The road sways:
Head, this way and that
A hound seeking home,
The river snake’s companion.
I am blown free and torn
In this cloud-edged land,
Misted and veiled
All purposes tasted.
A scumble of swifts
Above the black poplars.
A heaven white scent
The rowan, the hawthorn.
The names: a rough reed bed
Tempered with savoured vowel.
Roughshod, a blacksmith’s anvil
Of a language.
Meanings annealed, malleable,
A memory of saint and well
And sandal.
A here and a there
Where miles elongate
Or evaporate.
Where moments grow roots,
Deserve names, a fame
For remaining.
A valley cloud, high and low,
A wooded place, an inhabited mound,
Yew and chestnut,
A fading, rained-upon blossom
An adherence to loneliness.
—
simonhlilly 