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Posts Tagged ‘weather’

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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TWO DISTANT MOMENTS

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I breathe the cool cloud

The jackdaws lean into.

The spice of wet grass.

A radiant moment dissolves into eternity.

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Evening turns to rust.

The blue hills bloom cloud.

Soft, this beautiful melancholy.

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THEY ARE BEYOND

They are beyond reach, beyond the wall,

Beyond the chattering sparrows in the cool mist morning.

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The hill mutes its gold and silver.

In the valley, old men farm regret.

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It is beyond, but hinted, by the soft fall of rain,

By the slow southern breeze,

By the pale light and waiting.

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It is curled about the sleeping cat,

It’s breath a whisper in the room.

It goes out and comes back

Dressed in notions, disguised in feelings.

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It is inherent, yet escapes from

These eternal passing moments.

It becomes a word, moves air, shifts the sight,

Then disappears.

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Nos Calan Gaeaf

NOS CALAN GAEAF

What power we have is transitory –

the lights flicker off and on.

helpless we watch the waters rise.

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The wind too high for owls.

the ground too wet for sparrows and mice.

only the sheep, patient as the moon,

illuminating their fields-

the ghosts of Nos Calan Gaeaf.

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A day of broken promises.

showers slice through rainbows.

small roads disappear under leaves.

beneath the storm wind roar

there is a new silence.

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The veils between worlds wear thin.

the living and the dead stumble into each other.

A spirit murmuration, a dance before the setting sun.

those whose short lives were bright with pain,

killed by war and childbirth,

look on amazed at the docile listless hordes,

their over-saturated visions flickering,

addicts of mechanical dreams.

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ON STRUMBLE HEAD

A scribble the shape of ghost emotion

locked in a dark of its own

eroded by slow dissipations.

Attenuated solidity, it dusts and fragments,

worn to grit and feathers – like the scoop of ravens

haunting the far and airless void of fractured cliff.

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So it is the sun shines down this stooping lane.

So it is the sky stretches out cloud as thin as yesteryear

down to a sea-wet sunset.

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This scribble root of gorse, buried and unburied

in a wall of lost time, scuffed by sheep,

peeled back by tooth of buck rabbit

and the hungry fox who is a poet for worms

and small chances in the night.

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We slope down, we slope down,

a curved limb and a slow-motion fall.

The land reaches out, reaches out,

so in love it is with the distant perfect horizon.

The whitest lighthouse walls, a geometric parable of steps,

a blessing and a curse of isolation.

Here, it says,

not here, it says,

you are going, have gone,

astray.

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This tower of the last word, reaching upwards in rain and spume.

A dancer, as a tree is, as a gorse bush is,

straining against gravity and used to failing beautifully

with grace and a small distance in the smile,

a cool distance where perfection lingers before it melts.

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A ringing landscape song: thin lanes,

long and running bravely to thin air.

Dead ends, dead endings where the ravens wait

soaring up the world’s edges,

soaring up to taste the distant crashing,

testing the resilience of time against

the pump of heartbeats.

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Small things matter, so close we are here to edges,

where the wind throws all opposition down

and the pastel fragile seasons

dress and undress eternal moments.

There is a transparency in the air

above Strumble Head, a wind-blown kiss,

a word of farewell.

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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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THE LOVELY RAIN

The lovely rain –

Its breath is music

In the chapel pines.

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What we have left

Of what is done

Is debris.

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The lovely rain.

Chapel pines hum,

Eyes closed and swaying.

Cool is the air.

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