The Art of Listening - by
Hunt out wild flowers,
reach out, not to pick them
but as an offer of intimacy.
Hunt out wild flowers,
reach out, not to pick them
but as an offer of intimacy.
You clamour at my retina, a cascade / of cartwheels, demanding paint / from my palette
It’s been a long Indian summer / and the hips are rotting on the beach rose. / I can almost…
Though I know well enough
/ To hunt the Lady’s Slipper now
/ Is playing blindman’s-buff,
/ For it was June She put it on
/ And grey…
They rise
/ out of the earth like innocent serpents set to strike.
/ Their folded, poisoned heads assume
/ an attitude of piety; humility…
No great triumphal march
/ For lads like you;
/ No pasteboard victory arch,
/ No grand review.
/ In…
as leaves have grown / back in branches / songs have come / among the leaves…
Mistaking the season
the dandelion is blooming
in the frost on the road
Snowdrops are not innocent:
/ They fight for what they win.
/ Beauty’s what comes out:
/ Blind energy goes in.
/
/ …
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
/ Between the crosses, row on row,
/ That mark our place; and…
Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small?
/ Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner
/ To a fool…
O sad for me Glen Aora,
/ Where I have friends no more,
/ For lowly lie the rafters,
/ …