Perhaps before dawn,
As slow warm neck caressing fingers work,
Will frost thaw, and words flow, to catch the scene,
Too far away to see?
Perhaps my wizard’s cloak of birth, absurdly
Grey, then fading white, and straddling ancient distant dyke,
Fates me to never be, quite close enough to spy,
From outside, as the trees are felled and fall,
With clarity, as Isengard’s mad Orthanc shaft
Arises,
Topped with flashing eye?
Perhaps true gold is tempting, out of reach,
Simply gilding cloud stained dusty margins,
Edges scudding the horizon,
Not gouged by rusty yellow buckets
Ripping through the Banc’s trimmed top.
Best left for smaller mouths to nibble.
Perhaps too quiet to hear the saws,
Too quiet for more than words?
No Solsbury songs, no Gabriel eagles soar,
No Monbioted raucous protest.
Just the solitary, sculling woodpecker,
A passing pacy pigeon,
And the background robin
Rhythms.
No need.
To call the police.
Perhaps that border line,
Soft whispered, never heard,
Exists?
But not for
Buzzards, kites and bats.
Now displaced, but never nationless,
Never caring for the claustrophobia,
Of closed, or open, domes.
The the din of battles, mock.
Preferring to fly.
Free.
Perhaps for now, the baggin’s off,
Always much more than just plain 5240,
The Hump and Tump a messy littered maze,
Of needles, trunks. And from the generational
Slates, slabbed, lying peaceful, in the cwm.
Are those lost Ifor’s tears, now melting,
In cold dank February’s golden rays?
Perhaps the spewed spent fuel from
Crossed at dawn drawn battle swords,
Returns to earth. Too far away to smell
Amongst the resined, dying, once offsetting boughs.
Then, confused and unrequited,
The yawning valleys fill,
Fog.
And yet, perhaps, one broken trailing chromosome
Tracks the big bad black-belted boy,
A soldier Samurai, (from Neath)
Returning home, and trading rising sun,
For falling rain, and green
Green grass of home,
Takes aim and tilts at windmills new,
And yakuzal inspired
Democracy.
Listen, see. 
If not, perhaps just distant memories.
Keyboards rapped, and shutters pressed,
Tender brush-stroked canvases,
Hung here on strong red walls.
Reminders of unspeakably foreign beauty,
In this strange island land.
Called home.
Perhaps too close to touch.
Perhaps too much to feel.
Too many contradictions.
Perhaps, e.g,
Just far too near to see,
That actions speak truer than words.
And leaving Genesis behind,
We wait for distant entropy.
And Progress.
Inspired by the first mornings of February 2015, the views to the South,
and the following clicks, in no particular order:
thegardenimpressionists 
Your photographs are extremely beautiful but I could not follow the words. I think it is poetry. I just can’t make the connection between a broken chromosome and a samurai warrior. Sorry, I have to be honest, I know it is me as a lot of people appreciate poetry. Amelia
Hello Amelia,
Thanks for being brave enough to leave a comment. It is indeed a feeble attempt on my part to write some poetry, and it’s clearly failed at the first hurdle by being incomprehensible!
Glad you liked the photos though,
Best wishes
Julian
Beautiful photographs – and a far from feeble attempt at poetry! Your use of words to convey an image and keep a rhythm flowing is very clever. I will admit it’s taken a couple of reads, and will need a couple more, before I fully understand it – but then I’m a slow learner! 🙂
Hello Noeline,
Thanks for also being brave and having stab at understanding this. I have a brother who knows far more about poetry than I ever shall, and I’m often intrigued by his, and other critics’ attempts to ‘understand’ what a poem is really trying to say. Hence my late in the day change of title to ‘rap riddle’. But as you’re obviously discovering the clues are all there in the words, and links, so I’m really glad that you’ve battled with it!
Best wishes
Julian