I like moss. Patron saint of floral lost causesyou have to admire its persistencethe certain, resilient silencesuch blithe, unprepossessing paradox –utterly resolute, while so soft, so velvet. Survives, thrives in dim, damp places:up sides of crumbling housesdown slanted, slated, tiled roofs;the crack in the exposed wallshadowed lee beyond the garden gate.Invades repointed chimney breastcolonises the […]
Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month
Hath borrowed Zephyr’s voice, and gazed upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye) alas poor flower!
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’
All the trees on the triangle of the shopping centre have been
cut down and then there was no building. Lockdown.
I care. I don’t care. I drive my car
Earth pushes up
through our footsoles
air spins us
in its thinning spheres
time flies through us
Hunt out wild flowers,
reach out, not to pick them
but as an offer of intimacy.
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Handbound volume
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small oats rye bere barley
ripe harvest in late summer
a shallow ploughing
grazing and fallow in rotation
I never felt so much
/ Since I have felt at all
/ The tingling smell and touch
/ Of dogrose and sweet briar,
/ Nettles against the…
It’s been a long Indian summer / and the hips are rotting on the beach rose. / I can almost…
