What a week! Or perhaps 10 days.
A Rural View
Sheep shorn. Votes cast. Counting begun. Forecasts made. Pound soars. Sleep.
New day. Brexit bombshell. Cameron abdicates. Markets crash. Pound slumps.
Divided nation. Media meltdown. Hysterical gloom. National crisis.
Were we deranged?
Metropolitan despair? Rural relief?
England poleaxed Icelandically.
Wales dragonised Belgium.
Corbyn cabinet capitulated.
Boris bandwagon battered.
May, Eagle. Rise? Fox and Crab.
Eadsom? Gone or Gove?
A new political Farrage.
We’re here. Because we’re here.
100 years on.
From July 1st.
On the Somme.
Not in Lille.
Young men delirious,
Excitement as a second orchid
Blooms. And is spotted.
Seen. Loved, up here in Wales,
On this green no-man’s hill.
The peat fuelled purple field fades
Velvet, is bent and Tufted hair mists fog.
Painterly plant patinas. Sensuously swaying. Breezily bright.
The Himalayan Musk bleeds,
Pale skeletal white.
Has history been made?
Have minds gone mad?
Or is this too, a Towton time?
Murderous mayhem. Long in the forgetting,
With future distant centuries’ regrets.
The Ivy-leaved flowers bells ring blue,
The pimpernel’s blush palest bog rose-pink,
Sneak into bloom amidst sponge-soggy moss,
Sedate Valerian’s pollened showers drift down,
Spearwort’s long-stemmed splendours melt
With Tormentil’s bright buttery blooms, while
Banded bumbles buzz.
The shepherd hears the bleating lamb,
Incongruous in the valley’s silent shroud,
Filled late with fair June’s sun and warmth.
The frightened head is pushed, ears pulled,
From pig’s square netted snare, stretched tight,
And wired for sound.
Slowly, softly, safely now.
We’re here, because we’re here link, click here.
Towton time, click here.