Poetry And Pictures Of A Magical Land.

Poetry And Pictures Of A Magical Land. A page to highlight the countryside of south Wales through poetry and stories and pictures.

10/07/2018

Buzzard Circling.

A curl of cloud in a blue
Unblemished sky

Adding shape and dimension
To emptiness

Talons discovering the landscape
Of a circle

Wing tips conducting the music
Of flight.

A voice entering a new phase
Of desperation

The low persistent cries of
A kitten

Plunged into the loneliness of post
Weaning survival.

29/09/2017

Once
I saw a crow erupt from the debris
Of spilled intestines.
Astonished by my presence
His flight path took him up through
The thinning canopy
And into a sky held aloft by the rusting
Shires of autumn.

Insistent wing beats in wistful flight
Paragliding above me
Agonisingly slow deliberately so
As if challenging
My very perception of freedom.
The abandoned innards untouched
And steaming by my feet.

12/08/2017

The Imagery Of Static.

The day is surprised by the rain
That falls
Just out of my reach.
A soft companionable drizzle
Near enough to confide in yet far enough
Away so as not to intrude
On the business of my solitary occupation.
Watching;
The preserve of the unnoticed, loneliness
Solidifying in the veins.
Fields huddled in a grey tangle
Of hawthorn,
Mountains disappearing through cracks
In the hillside.
A day disorientated, light headed and greying
At the edges
Much the way I imagine static on the airwaves
Might look.

06/07/2017

I Wish.

I am with you in thought somewhere
Among the branches
The night a small town of covert whispers
And furtive movements.
From the camouflage of a leaf you look up
Seeing a crater left in the sky
By the monstrous indentation of the moon.
Oh but how I wish I was you completely
Going freely
Among the boughs of darkness
Going through the town neither acknowledged
Or acknowledging
Taking only to survive and not out of spite
Or hate
But most of all I long for the darkness to obliterate
The light that comes between us.
Still my thoughts are with you somewhere
In the town called night.

06/06/2017

Early summer, late afternoon
And the sun is flexing a yellow eye.
Two mallard, one reflection,
Dancing on the surface of the pond,
A choreography of wings, the slow sensual
Evolutionary waltz across water
Fading into the spider webbing marginals.

A close day, a still day,
The air heavy with Elderflower and wild garlic.
Three crows on a fence,
Eyes the polished patina of well aged oak,
Watch the afternoon limp into dusk.
The sun closes it's yellow eyes,
A breeze stalks the rushes and the green algae
Festers in the bog iris shade.

22/05/2017

Curlew Above The Moor.

Stripped back and bare
I ache for the horizon

Nerve ends exposed and raw
In the rush of the wind.

Screaming of age and the open moor.
Two wings,

A beak, two legs, a set of eyes,
Occupy the space between clouds,

Swaying and drifting
On the puppeteer strings of the wind.

Hilltops sharpening my focus,
The horizon

A pearlescent ambition still so very
Far away.

14/04/2017

Sleepless, restless, I opened the door on a world anchored
In glacial stillness,
A mute world, achingly lonely as if time
Had not yet begun.
Fields, hills, trees all faint contours of a map
Not yet printed,
The sky a slab of cold marble with thin veins
Of lingering stars.
I walked the path between trees begging for sound,
Longing for movement,
Willing a pigeon to yawn, to see his wings shift
In the branches.
Below the wood even the river seemed immobile,
Hesitating as if at the start of long journey.
Then the horizon opened
Closed and opened again gulping
Like a huge hungry pike, the sun emerging
From it's jaws,
Warming a distance of granite, nestling in the crags.
The water flowed,
A pigeon yawned, his wings testing the limits
Of the trees
And I returned along the path to the house
The sky now a battle field
Of mobbing crows, time roused and already going
In relentless pursuit of my morning..
I entered the house, closing the door on a world
Reverberating to the sound of marauding wings.

04/03/2017

Kingfisher.
A study in colour
His solitary craft perfected
In the privacy of willow sticks.
Neither idle or inept he watches for
Shape, composition, movement in the
Slow passing water.
His world an unstructured territory of
Water and trees
Yet lively as the trading floors
Of many a city institution.
Eyes a shape, the transparency of movement,
And in that moment of transition
Between silent bird and silent killer
His reflection opens the water.
A kingfisher haemorrhaging blue sky
And orange breast of sun.

26/02/2017

Mating Call.
Her cry is atomic, the fat man of the night.
A bleeding fusion
Of pure sound and muffled awareness
Fizzing in the tip tops
Flattening the sky until the moon is but
A rumour
Unworthy of the spreading.
His reply is catastrophic, the little boy of the night.
Octaves felling trees
Into a skeletal black smouldering heap,
Burned leafs feathering the void.
His eyes, a fallout of fused stars and dust,
Swivel on a flat head.
The blunt force trauma of evolution.

18/02/2017

Crow Day Drifting On Sugar Loaf Mountain.

And so it was that time came upon us
Strewn as we were
Across the emerging fields of Wales
The crow flecked sky
Fluttering all along the pink purple
Summer ridge
Kite clouds forked and wagging the
Distant horizon.
The crows loud and obnoxious, insolent
As swaggering youth,
Their wings pulsating like the throbbing
Socket of a ruptured eye.
Above us and below and all around us
Sheep, like white oily ants,
Crawled along the valley bottom and up
The hillside
Their heat shrunk bleats pathetic as
A blind daffodil in spring.
And so it was, that time having found us,
Set us free among
The sun blistered hills of Wales.
You soft and delicate your eyes like
Butterfly wings
Blinking away an astonishment of sound
And movement,
I with half open eyes(though not ruptured)
Watching the day drift by
On the pulsating wings of insolent crows.

12/10/2016

Nocturnal Yearnings.

Beside the fires shuffling gait
This room tolerates no movement.
In the frost bitten hours after winter dusk
I see the night crouching outside
My window,
The sky above the lawn a canvas slashed
With stars,
The planetary offerings of a schizoid hand.
At the hearth my thoughts are ash
Sieved through the grate
Landing in a confused heap in the hot pan
Below,
My last whisper sizzling in the aftermath
Of it's ex*****on.
I sit waiting as if on the edge of some monumental
revelation that will not come,
The hours fading into hushed oblivion,
Darkness thick and oppressive.
Intense as an owl's nocturnal yearnings.

20/09/2016

Twilight Crows.

Preacher birds
They look like puppet crows
Dangling, jerking
As if on the end of strings manipulated
By the trembling hands
Of a mad man.
Their hell fire and brimstone approach
To god
Ricocheting off pulpits of stone,
Each quarrelsome intake of breath
Corrosive enough
To strip the flesh from tortured lips.
Then, as if the strings have been severed,
They plummet,
Free falling through a shaft of fading light,
Emerging one by one
Into a twilight of heaving silence,
Voice boxes empty,
Wings tucked into the darkening crevices
Of the night.

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