boundary lines surrendered
sculpture on the way
Beech pennies tanned rust and ochre,
circles of sky cast in cold pressed leaf,
they do not always look the same,
though Brighty is damp almost all year
the pools are not always present.
I can look above and below,
but not at the same instant.
I must choose one plane,
breathe low and look kindly, and
fix each in focus, turn about.
This short circuit, a balanced cut-log bridge,
needle scent, fern and copper scale contours,
barely fifteen minutes to walk around, but
gently, surely, it all returns to ground.
Staccato taps syncopate
justification on your cautious hood.
Very pleased to have one of my short poems (In the squall) included in Issue 10 of Fat Damsel’s ‘Take Ten’.
Inquisitions of rain discover
Cusps in Brighty’s surface.
Shallow lacunae warmed
By fallen silks of beech.
Land’s stationary surface
Squeaking like meringue
To grip my marks,
Becomes a sudden sky.
I sense the edge.
I can’t see it,
But my stomach gives
A predictive lurch.
Ahead an uncreased page
Sweeps away, her seamless
Laid quite unperturbed
By marginal horizons.
Three hares birl a bonny dancer’s arc,
Lofting at an uncertain range to
Gaze unfazed through spindrift blinter.
They outflank my wallows with
Feral graces as quick as magic.
From waypoint stone to snow moled mark,
Steady as a better man’s faith,
I will hold my bearing true.
I will dot-n-dot-n-dot this beloved in-between,
Until the passage returns to ground.