Peat marsh: an extent
the irregular beat threads
and spreads out under foot
What is it there?
That old mud and sleepy oil
The secrets
against clocks
crackle
Rot yellow grass
burnt pieces
of far away
Sheep shit
rounded in
small beauty clusters
The incorrect trees
happen barely
and the stones clicking low
are almost forever
How the skin of lake mid way freezes!
one blurry
curving line
There were once small fires
in Quarrymen's barracks
Now the ravens
intimate here
flying and hidden
kissing behind rocks
upside down darkness
jagged feathered
no warning cawing
but talking with each other
coming nearer
They were as blacke
as they might be
South east spur
path markers lost
burning
steel
snow
Our human foreignness coats
The summit we didn't make
leaving us
True animals now skirting
and delighting
Scrambling down with
gloved hands in the snow
This poem is in many places dependent on the observations of the Wooden Girl. Often, she looks and delights while I march ahead or the camera organises my vision. The scene is Moel Siabod, the Mountain (I will call it a mountain) that can be seen in last week's photographs.
This post is for
The incorrect trees
ReplyDeletehappen barely
That captures it
very nice!
ReplyDeletere the poem: WG's "ayes" have it so that WB can give it to us nicely--nice pair.
ReplyDeleteThsnk you, all.
ReplyDeleteTC,
I've heard people describe this landscape as bleak. The word gets nowhere near it. There's few who know how to look: the Wooden Girl is one. Nothing in excess here but everything matters with force.
We try to be of service, Vassilis.
One person's bleakness = another's beauty.
ReplyDeleteIn landscape as in life, there may be an austerity that is bracing.
And too, for some, an austerity may contain an abundance within it, hidden but discoverable with a bit of patience.
ReplyDelete(Patience, that outdated, outmoded virtue.)
This is right.
ReplyDeleteMost people don't know how to take time. They know how to serve it, alright.
Waiting and looking is the thing.