Today I yearn serenity.
And on this first morn,
Shorn of politics and prorogation,
Struggling through horizoned clouds,
A window opens; golden light floods
Distant Pumsaint’s rich veined coum.
The hidden Cothi, quartz splashed seam
Of ancient history,
Rushing through this gilded land.
This babbling warp, wefted Celtic wisdom long abandoned,
Into this ancient landlocked celebration woven:
A Temple Of The Stars.
Unseen, these centuries past and now forgotten.
Taurus hides, his broken outline extending, distant.
Fallen standing stones erratic aberrations.
The crows and crowing cockerel, solitary pigeon,
Generational links. Fine familiar songsters
On this calm, quiet daybreak scene.
Trudging leaden limbed up dewy close cropped path,
Summer’s scent still seeps
From distant slatted doors.
Sweet vernal memory,
And with cup held, warming hand,
Here I sit, and gaze.
Mind and matter merging. My bigger picture
Stretching to the distant blackened, shadowed fans.
As far as I can comprehend.
And what of fiery Amazon? And burning trees.
And melting ice?
Way beyond my vision’s frame.
The shifting shufflers, paper pushers struggle. Impossibly.
Talk incessantly. Hushed, now babbling cacophony.
Stridently remote. Disconnected. Anarchic.
will, Will, WILL.
when, When, WHEN?
now, Now, NOW!
do, Do. DO….
Here my focus throbs.
Blurring viewfinder pulses. An electronic falsehood.
Or is it me?
Does the camera lie?
A halcyon deceit.
A structural construct.
A thousand shuttered presses, for each and every single year.
This life digitally mapped. A toll taken.
Memories in bits and bytes.
Yet is this failing? Worn out, soon to be discarded, binned.
Or buried, burned?
Or is it me?
I’m searching, soaking, sponging, slowly.
Colours, patterns, rhythms, rhymes.
Familiarity and up here, seated.
Time drifts, with the Cat’s ear floss
I think I sense, though not as clearly as the sleek black slugs,
That something’s changed. Druidic molluscs on the trail.
The rain, the chill, the moss.
And long before the rowan’s orange blizzard
Tempts the field fare flocks,
Beneath my feet a half a ton of patient Hygrocybe
Networked: Fibrous, Citrine, Glutinous and Golden.
The meadow’s mingling calon gymraeg. Throbs.
Beats. Five hundred watery headed Waxcaps thrust.
Burst through. Before the druids hunt and feast,
These Oxen meadow caps and stipes glow gloriously.
Secret, patch worked shields amongst the grassy blades.
An ancient link with Celtic groves,
Yet fleeting visions, autumnal fruits,
Ephemeral. The warming air soon
Curls margins, splits and shrivels,
Spores already shed. And blackening,
Quickly sludge, wet, beneath the turf.
Evening and the wind has changed. The once black mountain,
Picws du, now basks rich, in falling light.
A robin brightly trills.
A once gold charm, now silhouetted, bounces jauntily
Beneath, behind the noisy aerobatic foursome,
Flying high and South. Home.
The dying Sunday sun’s late kiss skims
Luscious Trefoil’s keeled, low life lips,
And down below, hearts rest,
In the belly of the house.
Long, slow cooked, summer memories,
Suffused and herby. Stuffed.
With pastoral dreams.
That night a mystery.
Mayerling’s dancing madness. Passionate despair.
Butterflied cause and chaos of a later, earlier,
Lunacy. A spark. A Sarajevo shot.
Fuelled fitful sleep and dreams.
Beneath the too soon thicker quilt.
Sweating, rising early.
Ink flows scratchily, smooth balled tradition,
While billion starry constellations still,
Survey in chilly paling darkness,
The morning’s transatlantic rush hour trails,
Below. New day. New week.
Dorian and Dominic’s autumn.
Deeply, darkly, dangerous.