January 27, 2009

bracken valley

Walking through the blue bell wood, the smell ringing in my ears

I think of the little men who walked here for the first breath of this particular smell.

She eyed them with panic and ran fast

into the crevices of the bracken valley

Now Old John’s wood piles lie heavy among the tracks

           Marking targets for the human arrow

But even they are being forgot and forget why they are here

           Sinking into the false memory of point and reason

I carry upwards, my legs aching with the rhythm,

trying hard to keep the beat (the beat that carries me away)

Below the path, a stream sings down the scale of the incline

           Flirting with the early summers sun.

That cuts hard shaft of musty dusted light

           Through the verticals of the wood

The birdies in contrapuntal grace glide over and

above this orchestral morning.

We always were susceptible to beauty and its truth

           Often touching it with our toes before

Withdrawing almost involuntarily from the shock.

I emerged that day from leafy shade onto the top of the open crest

a feel of loss

The sun was out, was riding the arched dome to 11 o’clock

           And painted the view in rich summer colour

loss because this that was in front of me

           That once fed us with the food freely and in brotherhood

Is recognised nowt by the locals and the others

           Though it lies here in my palm and burns it.

And there I saw her as before she had been seen

           Upright and muscle bound in curves

She wore golden eyes and golden fur

           And for a moment held my vision

In curiosity. I begged her to stay, to comfort me that no bond had been broken


But my she bounded away in fright

                                             Into the crevices of the broken valley.

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