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Posts Tagged ‘spring’

CUCKOOS

Cuckoos in the woods by Llwyngweision

Where the bluebells are almost, almost.

And curlews have been heard again by Cefngast.

The world teeters on the brink of this and that,

As it has always been.

A moment of sunlight,

A morning of rain.

The blackcap and the blackbird,

Their music amongst the pines and gravestones,

Recalling, recalling, forgetting, forgetting.

Annabelle is to open up the chapel

For one who searches names of a lost family.

Sunlight will warm the dust there,

The chill bones of God smiling at the sound of voices.

She knows the names and stories

Of a hundred years, almost.

When she is gone it will all be scattered in the winds, most likely,

And fall in flakes like the carved names of holy ground,

Illegible and smudged in pools of slow pale lichen.

The past scooped out and swept away –

The grinning smooth rocks when the rivers here lies low

In their dark green scars.

Hold it all lightly, then.

The mornings come and go.

A squabble of sparrows,

One slow bee meanders under the windowsill.

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LANK GRASS

Lank grass leaks light.

Meagre is the wan sun.

The hillside’s low shudder

Shoulders a cold wind.

To and fro the white flocks weave.

The black flocks waver, settle

And disperse in fields.

Time does not pass

That is not sweetly savoured:

Cloaking us in eternal radiance,

An infinity of brilliant shadow.

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GATEKEEPERS

Sometimes, sometimes, and maybe always,

The doors can be so big

That they cannot be seen.

There is, they say, a wall

At the edge of the universe

So far away, so far away

That light from there has never reached here yet,

And never will.

It is neither winter nor Spring.

The year is a troubled child, roaring.

You know how I write:

I wait for words to come.

I do not send in dogs to flush out the birds of dawn.

I wait, to the souls of rivers and owls, to the world’s breath,

‘Til one by one, they come, gathering lightly,

Bright buds, whispers from the old roads.

And they may dissolve again.

They may dissipate, the offerings of time and waiting,

Just not enough to stay or settle.

The giants were called obstructors.

You might say, doorkeepers.

You might say, guardians.

Huge enough to carve out universes from their skulls,

Rich enough to give a thousand conflicting cosmologies.

It shall be storm all day today.

Waters bubbling down

From the cauldron of the hills.

Clouds dark and eloquent as Afagddu,

Dark as a cormorant preening on his pylon.

The layers of darkness arranged

For a perfect dive into silence.

The world has tipped.

Its weather spills out across the globe.

Excess and extravagance

Eating the hearts of the poor.

We await a new inoculation against greed.

But all our heroes of success

Only hasten destruction.

And so, I bow to the obstructions of giants:

The doorkeepers who block the way

And ask the riddle.

What skill do you possess

That you think would allow you to pass?

What quality, what virtue, to ensure

Any continued existence here?

What is the art that will not destroy?

What is the craft that we have never encountered?

What reasons can you make sound reasonable,

Sliding your guilt out of sight as if it were not yours.

Can you learn harmlessness?

Facing the storm you have raised

Can you abide at ease in the flickering light

Watching the helpless ones be swept away,

Swept away.

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A RAINBOW WALKS

A rainbow walks the yellow hill.

Small birds know that Spring is coming.

The wide-winged hawks, too, wheel and watch.

The rain has reached us now,

Tapping the roof.

Our skies yawn wide here:

From the Radnor hills right round

Through Crychan forest and the hidden dive

To the Sugarloaf and the low lands beyond.

Epynt is the wall of centuries behind us,

The deep valleys of the Cambrians, an uncertain present.

The old stones have been removed,

Or lost, that pinned us to hope.

The roads run thin and crumble.

If you live forever, all this is of no consequence.

If you live one year, or two,

This doubt and uncertainty is extravagance.

Many hereabouts conjure their own futures

From a past they grasp as if it were theirs.

As well to leave it be, leave it be.

There is no power here but a rainbow

Walking, for a moment, the yellow hill.

And the flow of wind and cloud across the horizon

No one can see beyond.

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THE HEALED SKY

The healed sky

Blue as the calm gaze

Of the Medicine Buddha.

May all beings find peace.

The healed sky.

Wherever we go

The chanting of honey bees.

The healed sky.

A deeper peace creeps in,

Silence no longer a threat.

The healed sky.

Eternal mind

Ever returning to life.

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SPRING FROST

take this tight

fist of frost

sky knifed

star edge cold.

all night growing

winter chime

whispered seed.

Certain is

fools for fools

while the world turns.

Life and death

a blade edge breath

that flips and loves either.

The in and the out of it

that we would hold fixed

and steady as a sure eye.

King ‘til the Spring sun

smiles over the hill

and dreams of summer

quiet upon the air.

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NOT YET

If you go a little way from here,

Down to the valleys and towards the towns

You will see the surprise of green:

The hawthorn hedges already plump with budding,

Blackthorn blossom scattered and the slim beginnings of willow.

But not here.

The hill is waiting yet, as its people waits,

In no rush to lose the cold, clear skies.

Still breathing deep and slow the muddy mulch and bracken,

The silent puddled lanes that measure

The stretching days and spin of stars.

There, (here and there), even a cherry, young and impatient.

Even the black ash swells.

But not here,

Except the elder has begun to heal its emptiness.

One more bright day.

One more clear night

And we shall be full of lambs and birdsong.

But not yet.

Not here,

Not yet.

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CHAPEL OAKS

Scattering dark fingered roads

Across bright dazzled morning.

.

Jackdaws coming and going

like second thoughts.

.

Snow picks out the distant hills

As if they were unattainable heaven.

.

Cold clouds drift on slow sunlight.

.

The in-dwelling silence is a song

Stretched out to eternity.

.

It is what the red kites,

What the ravens, wheel and dance upon,

Uplifted by delight.

.

The pain of frozen air

Is how we know

we are alive.

CHAPEL OAKS (2)

A murmuration of starlings

A murder of crows

A ricochet of jackdaws

A damnation of preachers

A singing throne of oaks.

.

The bones of the snow

On a bitter wind.

.

March morning sky

Churning the bright butter of glory.

.

The hands of trees reach out,

Shaking in eternal prayer.

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DHRUPAD 23 (green)

Look now green green now.

Even green in the hills, the high cold hills

with their hearts of stone, sniff the green the tips of bracken there

amongst the old debris pink and brown,

so many cold nights

and winds and slow days of so slow heavy rain.

By the thin rivers and

the fast streams the sedges green and growing

that were hog bristle brown, dead and belligerent and wan wan wan.

And even

the clouds even the clouds

so low and slow and fast, tinged now with

a certain green a certain glow a reflected green, a green smile the world

knows

once frosts are gone and the larger days and the cowslips

foaming over the roadsides in drooping cream bee buzzing delight

now.

The pink grey empty slopes over Aberedw peppered

all peppered with hawthorn white and creamly perching there,

a crown for each moment each outcrop tonguing scented air

pert as hounds bright eyed and keen for sunlight warm and honey

smooth.

A green green breakfast it is now

for the hungry hills,

the hungry hills.

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Harnessed in silence
It shall fold itself
Back into the morning.

Voiceless, comforted
Into the cool slow sunlight
And the mist by the singing river.

It shall be polished with ashes,
Burnished by breath.

And we can not help but die,
But that is not the problem.
Says the breeze in the pines,
The breeze in the chapel pines.

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