Posts Tagged ‘nature’

Silver lands, wind breathing shivers
raindrops from black branches.
Puddle sky shudders.

These words fade, returning silence.
Raven slow, arcs vast horizons
In her bright, dark eye.

Turn over and sleep and
turn again.
Mind dreams on
Weaving its own worlds.
Root chant,
Bird’s feather heart.
Everlasting communion.

Wind roars.
Green buds.
The mountains
Full of rain.
There is brightness
In the air.
Woven with birdsong.

Remembering a bygone tune,
The old man pauses,
Lost in memory,
And then forgetting.


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These blurred, cool days are best,
Soaked with fresh green airs
Hedgerows smudged with bluebells,
Cowslip clouds lolling heavy in the grass
And the rivers running brown and full
Over hollows and heaped grey rock.
And everywhere the blackbirds sing
On wooded slopes,
And the flit and flick of swallows
In the slow rain.


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Ice Breath

Is it not true
That it is always the past
We burn to keep ourselves warm?

The young sun
Is on the tops now,
The deep valleys shadowed,
The mists let go, rise and melt away.

One slow hawk
Skims the treetops.
The cold, still sky
Has yet to choose its colour.

Ice will soon breathe,
relax to water,
Struck by the
warm weight
of light.

that have survived
the night
Will stir
and sing.

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october mornings

crows calling
gold drifts to ground
the smell of hills

pillow wind stills
crow echoes crow
falling golden

river road
car sighs by
clouds pile higher

Slow dawn tints all
hills mist and unfurl
then fade again

jackdaws’ monkey chant
a circle of clapping children
drums for good harvest
and kind winter

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Blue as Mary’s robe ripped with tears
A new born sun all night under the earth
Bursts up golden forgetting forgiving all else.
The small things of the wood, the small things of the valley,
Too hungry to watch, praying, breathing, forgetting and forgiving.
The honey waters of heaven collect cool and sing a river’s song.
They carry the names of hills down to the sea
And the blessings of breezes back again.

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Rock throat

slaked sung.

Water song

white til

mirror still.

River light licks

slick grey rock.

Cotton grass

nods spun

iron red pools

Raven crags,

stern chapels,

catch last light,

song sent

down cools

river throat,

Spin then

whorled, a thread

white song.

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We come and go one by one,
or in twos and threes,
waking, sleeping from dream to dream,
handfuls of dust cast heavenwards, taking shape,
then falling back to settled earth. Bubbles, thoughts, whispers.

Birdsong in a pearl-still dawn.
All day in this small green field,
in its tangled bare hedges,
in its edge of trees,
in its deep grasses, the birds
flit and feed, pause and fly off.
All day the sunlight picks out the distant slopes,
the forests, the valleys.
And they, too, come and go with mists
and clouds
and drifts of rain.

For months now I have been working the canvases,
(for people do so like a view to hold on to,
one so dear to them, one they do not have,
a way through the mute walls,
to remember an opening out, a beyond,
a distant something).
Against its nature to drip, against its habit to mix and merge,
against my own fingers’ wish to sweep and gesture.
A discipline,
the tying down of an illusion,
confection for tongue and eye.
A sweet minded moment, an ache of forgetting.
The life of itself, a liquid thing,
to be constrained so, to process
as a stately, well-dressed thing.
Not just a swirled, delightful, mute moment.
A meaning. A purpose identified. The monitoring of the familiar.
As if. As if.

As if there were a story.
As if there were a careful, structured tale.
A small beginning, a once, a long-ago.
Through wild, thorned paths and fog and frost
to a final end so careful balanced.
A just so.
An as it is.

Something to leave behind.
Something to say.
More than a rise and fall.
More than a raven’s cry across the valley.
More than a blackbird in the cool dawn air.
More than a drift of mist above a hidden river.
More than a rise of trout as the gnats dance on light.

The fire is lit
and it must be fed ’til nightfall.
Then, untended, it will die down,
become silent.

That smooth black,
silk-dark soot:
a hand-print,
a fingerprint on a cave wall:
we are here,
And we found a way through.


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