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Posts Tagged ‘Winter’

Night Air

NIGHT AIR

This is their hall,
their echoing hall.

Acolyte owls mist and dust the snow flurry
that is an endless decease.

Heat of heart and heat of blood
rises wavering, steams, dissipates.

Cold eyes, lidless, remain.
Smiling, our ancestors by their fires,
looking down to see whatever passes
(the long roads, the short roads
To their welcoming circles).

This is their hall, domed and dark
where the warm soul of breath expires.

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SNOW SEQUENCE

River words turn running slow.
To see, to say, to move on.
A winter’s day has little warmth.

A winter’s day has little warmth.
We huddle around our hearts,
Crunch bowed through snow.

Crunch bowed through snow
Finding footprints to keep to,
White hollows the slipping lanes.

White hollows the slipping lanes.
Lines of hedge float empty
Cold smudges reasons to move.

Cold smudges reasons to move.
Time falls in flakes ending all.
Weighted we bob, suddenly uncertain.

Suddenly uncertain,
This is not the world we own nor shape.
Even names for things have dissappeared.

Even names for things have disappeared.
The river mutters between teeth of ice.
Slick and black the waters smirk.

Slick and black the waters smirk.
Glass cold whispers sliding by.
River words turn running slow.

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CHAPEL PINES

Gosen chapel now is grey and silent.
hard to keep warm
without the wrath of God.

filled twice, filled thrice a year
when the dog-tired farmers, or
their small, steadfast wives, turn, turn and
return, to the sleepy earth
they are made from.

jackdaws in the chapel oak
are the black-clad preachers now,
and the line of pines that divide
the living from the dead, and the west wind
that scours the marshy fields,
joining together in dreary, beautiful psalms.

they keep the view open to the empty hills:
the wandering constellations of sheep,
the souls of these departed lovers,
grazing the lovely green.

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snow night now

Snow now, falling without degrees, silent as night is.
I shall become night, standing still here,
Starfilled and let go of all, dying slowly,
Imperceptibly cooler, waiting small sounds
and sight to clear, the shapes of other’s thoughts
Falling white and falling white
To settle without degrees and blameless.

The words tumble, some mine, some from elsewhere,
Which is which and why distinguish?
The small noises of the night
In snowfall and starlit dark.

The stars, nothing more patient
Nor sorrowful, watching it all blink
And change, blink and vanish,
Blink and sleep.
World’s bones grow cold
So far from fires
So far from fires.

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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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The roads by here drop listless,
Pitted and cracked with the weight of ice and rain.
Pulled down in slow light,
Hedges the colour of old scabs
And the bruised grasses buried deep

Snow on the mountain. Eira ar y mynyddoedd
Dark is the air. Awyr tywydd gyda hi
White the land. Gwlad gwyn erbyn hin.

All day long
Sun and frost
Have fought in fog.
Ice on grass grows
into white air.
Breath billows, the only movement.
A glaze of ice coats the puddled ground.

It thickens now
As dusk begins
Air as sharp as owls
And the blanketing silence

Fold back to silence
The ferment of universal memory
Star-fed, spinning hum
Spine mountain
Where the warm sun shines.

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GHOST WORDS, HAUNTED WORDS

Do you know
What you are
When you are asleep?

Winter trees –
It is easy to see
What they are thinking.

A filigree of branches
The grey oaks
Wriggle their limbs
Between the long centuries.

Today I remembered
A dream of water
Perhaps from ten years ago.

And saying this
More some such arise,
Memories like dead poets:
Complete images in total silence.

It is easier to see the illusion
Of television
If the sound is turned down.
As if one entranced sense
Is not quite enough.

Awake whilst others sleep,
Somewhat like becoming a ghost,
I suspect –
Thoughts coming
In a different order,
And voices
From unexpected places.

What roads do thoughts take
When they have
Passed through
And left us wondering?

The fire is singing
Like an old man
Making tea,
Whistling a tune
Between his teeth.

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