sun-splashed showers
of rainbow’d light
paint the valley far below
and tip the trees with golden glow
the river, flowing out of sight,
reflects the colours of the sky
a kestrel turns on air above
yet my heart,
like dynamite, balanced on a precipice,
could snuff this glorious vision out,
turning sunbeams into night
a broad green sweep of valley
dark woodlands gathered there
by the rivers curve
nestled far below
above the hills a kestrel calls
sound stretched across still air
the blue grey hills melt away
in a distant milky mist
high above the world i sit
in a place away from care
surrounded by a birch wood
close by a hidden pool
this sun warmed granite ledge
above a grassy stair
lodges like an eagle’s nest
amongst the ancient trees
the oak trees lean together
to form a secret gate
where the hawthorns grow
beside the lofty fir
I lean against the apple tree
and watch the day grow late
no sound but birds and waterfall,
the sighing of the trees
the sun dips down behind the hills
i sit in peace and wait
to see the diamond stars come out
across the web of night
this beautiful instrument of carefully chosen wood
its resonant round back sits warmly under my rib
its aged neck nestled lightly in the palm of my hand
it travelled with me to Ireland, Morocco, Poland, India, Spain
giving pleasure to strangers in wayside and stations
helping me find friendships in far away lands
i walked with it slung on my back in a desert valley
pausing as a strange music haunted my ear
looking about for the source of mysterious sound
the strings vibrated in response to a greater musician
the lone song of my mandolin played by the wind
it had no need of my hands. my hands long for it now
safely home, hung again on my wall, a thing of beauty,
resting, its grace and my love of it inspired hatred
one who wished to hurt me, hurt it in anger, vicious spite
while i was locked out, unable to reach you,
gone, a place under my rib left empty
no light glints on silvered strings
the wind will no longer touch them, nor i
one hundred and fifty years, gone in one moment
full of tunes played and tunes not written
all that remains, a strap embroidered
with roses and ivy entwined
shadows dancing on the wall in firelight
music heard far off, the shade behind the waterfall,
a leaf turning in light, falling, landing rots to dust
the echo of a voice across a valley far away, sun sinking,
frost that silvers the hilltops, the cocks crow at dawn,
a sense that all is born to die, overpowered, as it must
light reflected in a lake, rainbows over cornfields,
swallows gliding on the high still air, above the wood,
the dark smell of mud, these are things i trust
bring what life gives or go as it will
night into day, day into night,
underneath all this one dazzling beauty,
shining bright,
burning light,
conquering fruitless fear
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
the disused viaduct spanned the valley
a leap of arches, stone piled up on stone,
where old channelled streams, cut into cold clay,
flowed away from the hazed heat of the day
i followed to the ancient, cool damp wood,
no longer frequented, my secret place
i was lost in thoughts and wandering daydreams
wrapped in deep silence, woven with bird-song
surrounded by scents, the creaking of trees
the soft bubbling sounds of the nearby streams
a rustle of leaves on a sudden breeze
that hushed and sighed with the fall of the wind
leaving deep shade for dazzling sunlight
i entered the clearing, briefly stood, blind
as my sight cleared, he was suddenly there
he in the east, i in the west, both transfixed
suspended in time, an unbroken gaze,
we stood in communion across space
the race of my heart the only sound
i slowly knelt to the ground without thought
he stood in a sunbeams magical glow
a fox, the like of which i never saw,
tall, strong, gleaming in deep red coat, he shone
the King of the woodland for evermore
kneeling before him quietly, i smiled,
making my respect and intention clear
our eyes held, i his bondsman and loyal kin,
in a place that stretched through air, almost near
a moment of true beauty kept me there
when, turning quickly, he vanished away
leaving me, standing in awe and pure joy
a vision of gold, held still in my heart
The Dreaming Path 