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.