/ Cornwall

Polcuta

I sleep dreaming of birds
and wake to birds answering
my dreams of sleep

The roof of this church
is rustling green -- its pillars
sway with the wind

From the broken egg
the spilt deep yellow yolk —
so much life withheld

Fern-frond, wing-motion,
bud-growth, leaf-pattern, blossom —
brief flirtations

Stars rise in the grass,
a firmament of green
lit up by yellow

On the apple tree
tight buds unfurl their promise
of sharp autumn fruit

The lawn is a quilt;
thousands of daisies print it
with points of light

Warm tilth between weeds --
a butterfly, self-poised
on the nettle’s tip

A vast white light whelms
thirsty leaves and famished ground.
Secretive shadows

The lightest shower
pit-patters on grateful leaves --
shy spirit returning

A robin hops across
the threshold, alert and wet
from the fresh spring rain

The whole wide beauty
is freshened by fallen rain --
the wet leaves sparkle

You cannot curb it:
spring is here, sprouting long grass
you will never mow

Threaded with patience
in a long and lasting chain --
the daisies of hope

Through summer haze
across three quiet meadows
The sound of bells

A tuneful chatter:
days, joined by wordless birds,
are filled with music

Golden bark peels off
dry as curling skin, and shines
milky white beneath

Under the cherry trees
petals are harbingers
strewn like summer snow

They are silent
as snow, drifting to the ground --
oh, the years passing

The steps climb
through a haze of petals
to the shut gate

The hedges swarm
with ferns and campion
at the dream-lane’s edge

As sudden as rage
it flares up from the border,
this creative fire

The buttercup field
is still an idea
in the mind of summer.

A bee hides
in the lowest bell and sips--
time spires upward

The red fox is a jagged shape
printing the field
with sharp-edged shadow.

As the sun goes down
the orchard is resigned — but
long shadows remember

Silence by the ponds.
Even the lambs are quiet --
in this valley, peace

Scent of meadowsweet
earth’s dampness, darkness, deepness —
evening silence

A white plume rises —
summer’s signature, catching
autumn’s bitter drift

Light slowly withdraws —
the cat prowls, a moving shape
among still shadows

The moon is watching
the silver gate. All is hushed -
it will soon be night

Darkness has fallen.
The vale is a quiet well
Waiting for sound

Owl-calls at midnight,
in tune with the scattered stars --
a half-moon listens

Polcuta
Share this