Posts Tagged ‘summer’



June settles in,
Warm and fine and easy.
Beyond Spite Inn
Clouds roll through the wet grasses.
Two cuckoos praise each other
Across the oak valley floor.
The old roads drip green.

Spite Inn is a ruined, but preserved, building on the road between Tirabad and Cyngordy on the northern slopes of the Eppynt. It is likely a drover’s resting place, and its name is thought to derive from its rivalry with another nearby inn.

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a landscape for wang wei

the big hills
have gone visiting
the sky

in slanting rain
the green trees
dance and mime

incense rises
curving through all space

the window is a shrine,
an offering to silence

old men suck tea
and talk of distant troubles

i will paint in green
and grey and gold

a solitary bumblebee
wends its way
amongst comfrey
and wormwood.


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Walking further than intended
A river breeze in the tree tops
And below, streams of birdsong.

The grasses are shooting green
But still in forest shade
The violets in full bloom.

A running stream
A cowslip sky.
At the forest’s edge,
The scent of green.

Deep in the woods
Violets bloom where no-one sees.
Perfected in themselves,
Complete within silence.

Allowed to breathe here
By the forest’s edge
This cowlip sky
A river wind in the treetops.


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a cowslip sky
above butter mountain.

the white waters whisper-
no rain for a week now.

the summer stars i have all renamed
and are become dear places i have loved.

and the faces that float smiling
as i sleep, shine warm as sunlight
in bee-blessed gardens.


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A Season’s End
(Epitaph for Vicky)

we become more uncertain
and waver by the day,
our past melting behind us.
a change of season, inevitable.

where now that warm pulse?
that voice? that presence?
altered a little into sunlight,
into a vast, bright landscape,
into a bigger heart.

for there will always be beauty,
though no one promised joy
without sorrow.

we have melted into summer
wrapped in cooling green shade.
and some of us have not returned.

here then, the blossom heart of hawthorn,
here, a cowslip sky and creamy elder.
in the forest still are one or two violets
and the sound of running water,
and the droop and sudden flash of bluebells.
the sigh of swallows and the cuckoo misted valley.

where she walks now is all beauty,
and calm, and easy forgetting.
a summer that shall come upon us all.
and a long day, and a warm evening,
and a long, silent, singing night.


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though we sleep
dream or wake.

the world wrapped
in its own light
soaked in whispered

a fountain of waters
a tree, a river,
wondrous emergent

a circular thing
a pearl gently
warmed in fire,

dawn misted,


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A break in the cloud:
A mouth of light
Drifts slowly over Beulah.
Dawn cannot be long.

Bats flicker vision,
A fluttering heartbeat.
Warm air, rain-wet
And rose-heavy.

The road sways soft
Down to Beulah.

Drowsy with valerian,
Hammocked easy
On sweet drift meadowsweet.

Awake the spired, serry willowherb,
And betony: scatter of exclamation.

We float light upon
Our own bright shadows.
The afternoon sun
And cloud valleys singing.

The road down to Beulah
Under the mountain.


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