Carrying the years
The weight of years
captured in this moment
of stoop and sticks.
Frayed life worn like
some badge ..
make that badges.
Mop heads clinging to joints
speaking as each stiff step is made.
Entropy outwardly worn for all to see
that sideways glance forbids
any murmur of sympathy. Though
outwardly the gossamer swirling
round your head is web-like
whispers there is still a life to be had.
A whale back ridge rises out of Ogwen valley.
Its ridge climbs up from the llyn,
leads your eyes and feet to Adam and Eve.
Back to the beginning.
Waiting is a dare.
To leap the gap
between the petrified pair.
Up there in the gods, clouds clothe your breath.
Serpent mist writhes, opening up
snap-shot views of the Glyders ring.
Here at the top,
facing the dare.
Shall I leap the gap
between Adam and Eve?
But worn out by the climb
and bite the apple.
Sheep Spine ☊
Life and death,
bleached on to this peaty moonscape.
Here it is elemental.
Moor and sun,
a harsh unforgiving beauty.
Knuckle on knuckle.
Each notch etched clear
in its whiteness.
Purity laid bare.
Simplicity of structure in
the chaos of wilderness.
This is where it all ends.
Bone and earth.
Pale faced girl at the window
Pale faced girl at the window
watching as I drive by,
leaning out of her warmth into a cold grey day.
It’s a monochrome scene with her pale blonde hair,
the black room behind her and a blanket sky.
She sits on the sill, draws smoke lung deep,
blows hard in the air
so as not to taint her room.
Bravely gunning down Marakina miners
When you have an automatic rifle you are brave.
When you have body armour you are brave.
When you have a helmet you are brave.
When you stand in line with the others you are brave.
When you all take aim you are brave.
When the black South African miner stands before you
with a wooden club you are brave.
Your bravery sweeps him away.
Every morning, regular as clockwork.
He marches past my sash window.
Determination in every step.
Full head of grey hair, eyes fixed four paces in front.
Every morning, whatever the weather.
Today it just sits there,
waiting for the conductor to wave her baton,
drumming up wind, sun, rain
or whatever else is written
on the meteorological score.
For now the iron black branches
just beyond St Andrews house are still.
And here he is. Marching back again.
The Guardian tucked hard under his right arm.
The same paper each day.
The same navy blue jumper.
Regular as clockwork.
I watch him.
Visions sent downstream
Speaking words of woods, valleys and
moors over the weir, I watch
as these images are washed away
to some distant ocean.
There’s an edge to the day.
Steady rain sulks its way
over the landscape.
flex their branches
in a rising wind.
the storm breaks.
Wind rips through,
Birds and leaves tumble
over the fields.
River rages as it flees to the sea.
And in the black cold night
shocked stars blink back the tears
Snow suffocates the shuffling of nature.
No longer can wind worry at autumn’s leafy remnants.
All loose ends are tied up,
in a new world
that’s stealthed in under cover of darkness.
In this wire-taut quiet
my hearing is keening at the silence.
Just your steady breathing
breaching my ears.
The girl at Carluccio's
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