snowdust on the mountain;
weft of cirrus; along the bridle path,
a twist of lamb’s wool, bramble-caught.
(No photo of the lamb’s wool, I’m afraid – it looks awfully grubby when you try and take a close-up!)
Category: poetry
ephemera
Just a couple of hours to the east of us, in Madrid, the trees are already blossoming:
In fact, the blossoms are already shedding petals, which reminds me of Omar Khayyam:
And look a thousand Blossoms with the day
Woke – and a thousand scatter’d into clay
hiraeth
The round-shouldered cobblestones nudge
at my sandalled feet. They are smooth
as the pebbles that sang on an Anglesey beach,
as the present-from-Beaumaris paperweight
whose faded dragon still parades
across my desk. They are warm
as cottage loaves fresh from Powell’s,
or bakestones from the griddle. The gulls
shriek with the same harsh voice, but the river
is an unfamiliar olive green and runs
beside a motorway that leads me
away from you.
(Not a new poem, but appropriate for March 1st, the feast day of Dewi Sant.)
break in the clouds
We all turn out to watch
the river churn and the bridges
froth at the mouth while
above us, angry mountains clench
white teeth, briefly holding back
the storm.
In a brief lull in the torrential rain yesterday, I ventured as far as the village.
Continue reading “break in the clouds”
mardi garden
The cats are twitterpated: lords and ladies
of misrule, they squeal like St Martin’s pigs
in their carnal carnival. Birds’ nests burgeon
in the hedges and, on the early apricot,
a choir of ruby buds swells, ready to burst
into scented song.
More “notes for a poem” than a finished poem, I think. And they were notes taken several years ago.
Continue reading “mardi garden”
don't confuse the narrator 