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Posts Tagged ‘spring’

A WIDE SUN

Slow cloud
draws the hills.

A drift of warm air takes
the last of the snows.

In deeper valleys green is
no longer an imagining,

And a wide sun
pushes out the days
Into weightless blue evenings.

It is something, now, to float upon,
To hope upon, to gather up and savour.

The fingertips of Spring
parting the valley song

And the woods, a veil of birds,
And a new green day.

2018/04/p1190212.jpg

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Opening out.
We saw a bright place:
Summer stars, birdsong.
The language of a landscape.

Bright Spring day.
For a moment
Nothing else matters.

Home through snow.
Getting lost –
Other people’s footprints.

Winter trees:
You can see
what they are thinking.
Weighing the memories
of years and seasons.
Squeezed thin
between the bright veins of light
And its decay.

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CWM GRAIG DDU

Yesterday the ravens were dancing.
Now, this east wind has scoured the skies
To a perfect frozen blue.

Dark, bruised by cold,
Cwm Graig Ddu, sunless, looks out,
Dreaming of rivers.
Its sheep: philosophical rocks,
Waiting for Spring.

Bitter cold.
Bright sunlight.
Trees dream
In the dark valley.

Hours pass.
Gazing out.
Hunting words.

Calibration of sorrows –
A mountain view.

An empty road
Still finds its destination.
All music sits upon its silence.
A sweet sap comes after winter sleep.
By slow breath the cauldron bubbles.

2018/03/img_3417.jpg

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RAINY SUNDAY

cloud comes down.
a light rain.
gazing out.

tending the fire:
it roars gently in the hearth.
no need for thought.

tending the fire.
a bird flies across.
white mind.

a bird flies across space
leaving no trace
but in the mind’s eye.

nothing to see
beyond the window.
spider scurries
across the sky.

low cloud.
spider scurries
across the sky.
distant hills.

white mists –
breath of the ancestors
whispering between birdsong.

snow banks
on distant slopes:
whiter than the mist,
whiter than the cloud.

2018/03/img_3448.jpg

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BLACKTHORN SPELL

The cracked wind
Azure blue.

A tumbled sky
Ivory-scented.

Ice
Ashes
Alabaster
The Hunter’s hand.

A collection of images that I have put on a small blackthorn bowl, revolving around the time of early Spring and the blossoming of the thorn. The bowl is not quite finished yet- I am adding a verse from Song of Songs in Welsh and working out whether to put the English translation on as well.

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2017/05/img_2732.jpg

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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How the cuckoos sing sweetly
Of treachery and loss.

In the dewy morning
The rivers run low,
The hills to themselves,
Quietly weeping.

Ravens are joking on their way
To the slaughter-fields.

They do not need
The permission of gods
To be satisfied and at peace.

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