The river has again
found its true course,
the banks and fields will
reap the reward of its wanderings.
A few minutes today,
a few more tomorrow;
the sun lingers,
warming the beeches.
Gold and silk threads
soft, shimmering,
countless stitches
of unnamed artisans.
Chattering Fieldfares
flock and clamour,
northern voices
vexing natives.
Winters low light
cast over the Down,
cold winds ruffle
the warm green shoots.
The year begins with
A clean white page;
Searching for words
In the Chalk.
Skeletal structures sleep –
Dreams of ripe flesh
And summer’s warmth
A skail wind roars
And rents the clouds
Through the beeches
The evening’s palette
Washes the horizon with
The winter sun’s warmth
A flurry of feathered activity
In the short light space
Between night and night
Wee Stones In A Burn 