EARTH’S own HEAVEN
The great Ash, in full prime
fanned out like a hand on the hill-top
winnowing the Directions,
bends to the sea-ward pressure
of the prevailing winds.
The old oaks, littered with lichen
are scattered along the lane
following the young river below,
as it tumbles over the stones
between May-lush water meadows
and the sheep-speckled Cambrian heights rearing above;
the wood-smokey blush of bluebells emerging through last years’ tawny bracken;
the lambs getting plump and skittish
the kite and hawk
drawing hermetic glyphs and runes
behind the scribbly branches
on the face of earth’s own heaven.
Further along, downstream
it broadens to river,
chortling over the ford,
passing the mill, under the road
and through the tunnel of beech
to an arcane place of old.
Its tranquil spaces are hummocked
with fallen masonry, culverts,
caved-in cobbling, crumbled walls,
70yr submerged farm implements,
hinges sunk into the growth of trees;
old gateposts, a gravity-fed spring
full of memories: voices, figures...
Movement, life, present and ago.
