Posts tagged ‘summer’


High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane) – video poem


a video poem by set around the site of a Roman fort on Mastile’s Lane, above Malham in the Yorkshire Dales.


the written version of this video poem can be found at:


this video poem is copyright Gavin Jones 2013


Rauschenberg Summer (Street Finds)


A figure walking through a screen:

Manhattan ice with canyoned bikes.

A disused notion, painted flat.

A sound is sound, discarded, drowned.


So he – or she (whichever suits) –

Will leaf the city streets and find

A blanket ministry of cool,

Of heads in shades and open tops.


The poster slips from wall to wall,

Its message drips, she waits for change.

He waits, and walks, and there unbreaks

The cast off wheel of summer’s drag.


A summer in another’s mind.

What’s lost is lost: the seeker finds.



Inspired by the “combines” of Robert Rauschenberg (with a title written whilst listening to Radiohead)



Stone Curlew


The scrape, like hare, of pebble bird:

As fawn and cream as flint in church.

The jaundiced, yellow eye will blink

As mirage dews pour through the fen.


The field was first, the bird was first,

The sky reflected breck was first:

The yellow eye had snapped them shut.

The clouds of dawn turned iris bright.


The lines of earth, of dyke, of hedge,

Formed islands, merged and took the sea.

It watched it all, the yellow eye:

It watched it from its field of stone.


Beneath the dust which birthed its calls,

A wary bird ducks low to earth.




Pipit – Lapwing – Swallow – Chaffinch


Up on the moor tops, fields are cut,

And soon the berries will be ripe.

Amongst the heather, pipit rich,

The tewits fake their broken wings.


I think too hard about the words.

The sun is low and burns the eyes.

The dry stone walls form broken lines.

I hear the words, but cannot write.


And down below, the dale is dark,

Its words are carved on whispered stones.

Around the empty chapel hall

The swallows coax unwilling young.


So this is summer in the north:

A chaffinch calls at mottled skies.




Secret Hiding Place


Amongst the lime-sun barley spikes,

A conch-curled shell of azure hides:

A field of summer, field of spring,

A field that Demeter would sing


Where lovers run through trails of stems

And trace their broken tracks through life,

To where the underworld begins,

To where the sun and night are streams.


It’s there amongst the twisted grass,

There they hang from grains and grasp

At rains which come as echo seas:

The hidden ones who cast their shells


For now their light of life will glow,

And deep within their mysteries flow.



Poem inspired by the rather wonderful photograph, taken by Silentwonderland,

and found here:






Yellow Wagtail


The gentle rains have summoned gold

From limestone walls as light as leaf.

The summer citrine floating gems

Are raised to shine on sundewed peat.


Their calls as fine as spider’s silk

Are threaded through the spikes of sedge,

And bright as mirrors to the sun

Chase heaven in a skyward vault.


As fragile as the cotton grass:

Arrive in April, dance in May,

Come autumn join the swallows south

And leave the hills to still and grey.


The yellow wagtail’s second life:

Is gleaming in the Sahel’s sands.