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Posts Tagged ‘Winter’

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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I thought I had posted this late last year, but cannot find it anywhere, so maybe I didn’t, after all. The winter skies of the Cambrian Mountains and whispers from Taliesin and the Ordovices, Iron Age tribe of the uplands.

THE HIGH PASTURES OF HEAVEN

About its turrets are the wellsprings of the sea.
Clouds wrap the mountaintops,
Rivers run full with meltwater.
The dear horizon is our fortress,
Saviour from the revolving sky,
Pinned back to harmony.
One voice that is not one voice
That is one voice, the mind
Of the poet on wandering roads.
How is the poet like a hedgerow?
A tangle of blackthorn inpenetrable,
Interwoven, sharp with sorrows,
It bursts into pure blossom,
Its fruits are bitter truth that sustains
Through deep frosts.
How is it that poets and flowers are alike?
None knows when the sweetest
Shall spring up, though the seeds
Are everywhere.

The centre of the land here is a silent fortress, ageless.
Held motionless, it remains
Whilst the seasons roll their seas
Across the valleys.
Such emptiness in a heart, so
One can hear the tumbling flows of feeling
Before they cloak themselves in sound,
The sound before the language,
The language before the meaning,
The meaning before the comprehension.

The ravens knit the valley airs.
The weight of beauty, near unbearable.
So in the centre is silence untamed,
Rolled psalms of poignant distance..
Each path, each road, only now here
Because of the thousand weary feet trudged before
With stick and dog following the fluttering,
Oblivious flocks to and from the high pastures
Of heaven, the summer pastures of delight.

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It is the rocks that make the river sing,
The world that gives us song.
Bones creak, branches heavy with snow,
Breath captured must release.
Spring will come.

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THE BLESSING AND POISON OF GOOD WORDS

no moon, but a single
sickle call of an owl
in the deep valley

cold stars are winter’s eyes
as warmth leaves the world
and darkness wraps all up
as close to silence
as one can think.

by rivers and stars are we lifted up.
by rivers and stars are we brought low.

silent voices dipped in cloud.

I shall sit in darkness and dissolve into light.

dissolve into endless light.
dissolve into light.

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LOST HAIKU

Autumn leaves.
The path ahead obscured.
That is why I am so late!

Only one leaf left
On the old tree –
And that is a bird.

(Basho on biophobia)

The old pond.
A shopping trolley pushed in.
Profound emptiness.

Midwinter road.
Around the corner:
Sunshine.

A half moon sunk low.
In the valley. Listen!
The river, shivering.

The past turns haiku.
The valleys dissolve in rain.
Dissappearing light.

To culture silence
Become that grey backed heron
And watch unhurried.

Dark water
The ash bows down
Reflecting.

The smallest day.
Mosses, lichen, drip their own green light.
Darkening woods.

Foot in mouth
I walk words
Tasting damp leaves.
The spiral of green moments.

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