Perhaps before dawn,
as warm neck caressing fingers work,
will frost thaw, and words flow, to catch the scene,
Perhaps my absurd wizard’s cloak of birth,
first grey, then white,
straddling the dyke,
means I’m never close enough to spy,
from outside, as the trees fall,
and Isengard’s Orthanc rises,
Perhaps true gold is out of reach,
gilding the clouds’ rough edges,
scudding the horizon,
not gouged out by rusty yellow buckets
ripping through the Banc’s trimmed top.
Perhaps too quiet to hear the saws,
too quiet for more than words?
No Solsbury songs, no Gabriel eagles,
no Monbioted protest,
Just a sculling woodpecker,
a pacy pigeon,
and robin rhythms.
Perhaps that Border line,
often witnessed, but never heard,
But not for
buzzards, kites and bats.
Now displaced, but not nation less,
never caring for the claustrophobia of closed, or open, domes,
and the din of mock battles.
Preferring to fly.
Perhaps for now, the baggin’s off,
always more than just plain 5240,
the Hump and Tump a littered maze,
of needles and trunks, and from the generational
slates in the cwm,
are those Ifor’s tears,
Perhaps the spewed spent fuel from
crossed at dawn battle swords
returns to earth, too far away to smell
amongst the unknowing, once offsetting boughs,
then, confused and unrequited,
fills the yawning
And yet, perhaps, one broken trailing chromosome
follows the big bad black-belted boy, a Samurai warrior, (from Neath)
returning home, trading rising sun,
for falling rain, and the green
green grass of home,
tilting at new windmills and
If not, perhaps just distant memories.
Keyboards rapped, shutters pressed,
tender brush-stroked canvases,
hung on strong red walls.
Reminders of the unspeakably foreign beauty,
Perhaps too close to touch.
Perhaps too much to feel.
just too near to see,
that actions speak louder than words?
And leaving Genesis behind,
we wait for entropy.
Inspired by the first mornings of February 2015, the views to the South,
and the following clicks, in no particular order: