SITTING IN A FIELD ON A WINDY DAY

We’ll never know if they worked in silence
like people praying the way our monks
illuminated their own dark ages
in rocky cloisters where the waves
kept time for them
against invasions and the weather
while they contrived a binding labyrinth
of laced and fabulous lit affinities
to spell their blinding sixth sense out
of a god of shadows Or whether, like birds
tracing great bloodlines over the globe,
they kept a constant gossip up
of praise, encouragement, complaint. It doesn’t matter:
we know they went with guttering rushlight
into the dark: that they came to terms
with the given world: that they must have had
-as their hands moved steadily by spiderlight
one desire we’d recognise: they would before going on
beyond this border zone, this nowhere
that is now here- leave something upright
and bright behind them in the dark.
SITTING IN A FIELD ON A WINDY DAY
Surge of leaves: the grass leaning al one way.
Bending only so far
in their elastic dance with necessity, the trees
register pressure with a measured wildness
that marks the enormous
patient nature of their lives. The grasses
shiver, flirting with light.
At ground level among the daily graves, among
the amazing spires and airy weird gazeboes of grass,
I’m holding my breath: almost everything
is taken away, and still
this perturbation will persist

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