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 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

~

Scent of wild garlic
wet bracken, autumn bonfires -
everything passes

~

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