Sunday, 29 January 2012

january 29

clinging mists in the folds of the range of  further horizons
perhaps I'm in it too

a solitary duck sends out an anguished call
keeps trying
now faster now throatier
a longer silence
deep in a ditch
its a conversation
fields apart

two magpies sitting on the absolute tips of two spindly trees
their contradictory noise
echoing each other

and hedges blend into trees blend into thickets into firs
echo of aircraft
chorded deep and comfotably
fading gently on and on
birds, a stream, the latch of a gate

solitude is the great giver

Sunday, 22 January 2012

collecting gates
found a dead tree
ivy bound
its leaves still green, its berries blackcurrant
was it the tree or the ivy

the ivy has snapped too
its as dense as wood
the trunk has crumbled inside
the split is from the root
poor tree killed by ivy and rough wind

a nest of ingrown chicken wire
inhabited like a cobweb dancing in the shadows
and has that slab of concrete always been there
the perfect tripping device

january 22

Sunday, 8 January 2012

january 8 2012

First visit of the year
the barn is 'new'
the roof has been re-thatched and covered in wire
to stop the animals and birds destroying it
and the ground around has been whipped back and flattened

dull greens and purples
a touch of copper, greys and light
shuffled and paged
string whites of the young birches
lurch of ivy moving up a row
smudged pink of empty ends of branch tips
as the sound of a gate being knocked in a few fields away
so outlined in the quiet its sharpness cuts sound

sudden mountainous cry of passionate crows