Archive for May, 2014

21/05/2014

HUM

 

HUM

through grass

this

empty

body

of stories

accumulate

day

by day

some

are called

from deep within

from grass

in breeze

a town

is told

 

HUM

of life

this

silver

speckled blade

of life

tales

– a calling –

sounds

which seem to mean

rest

drift

 

HUM

these

senses click

in

and out

sharp

then soft

this

chestnut stream

of

summer bees

just

out of reach

just

there because

moments

left

                to speak

then

speak

then

gather speech

 

HUM

a sun

full of rain

full

of absence

a

crow talks

tells

its tales

its

other tongue

drifts

on through

the town

drifts

on gentle breeze

on grass stalks

muttering

mumbled

barely heard

 

HUM

 

18/05/2014

on the wooden screen

 

on the wooden screen

the shadows

of a sycamore

move

in the breeze

 

A rose was lost amongst the trees.

I hear your voice above the street:

It’s been so long, but still you speak.

The shadows move and hide the rose.

 

The clouds are made of hills and you wait beneath the hills, above the snow line, up where the words begin to lose their worth.

 

And now I feel the stillness flow,

And radiate, then settle down.

The fight against this life was lost.

This life, this moving stillness cast.

 

In photographs

you are never still. You took a pose and shifted weight, and smiled as if the smile meant more than being

 

The weight we carry on these feet,

That plank of wood on which we lye:

Can emptiness be hard to bear?

These shadows on a wooden screen.

 
Deep in a valley –

so deep you wouldn’t know it was there from above

–          the spring flowers came just a little later than elsewhere.

 

The rose grew taller in the dark.

A blackbird sang, a robin sang:

A calling for a distant sun.

The rose would reach it, inch by inch.

 

This is not about forgetting, nor resting, nor putting by. This living here is never done, amongst the hills, amongst the trees. The snows of late spring never last more than a day or two.

 

The shadows of a sycamore

Are patterns of a gentle breeze,

Are patterns of a distant sun,

Are here, are now, and always so.