I look for light where there is none,
taste the wind
for a salt memory of the sea
and touch the wild grasses
for the fleeting presence of a hare
full of damp grey ribbons of cloud
streaks and shafts of steely grey
rain-wet and dew-wet
and a scattering of noisy finches
dusk seeps and creeps
beneath the cloud
between the rain drops
among the raggedy grass soldiers
In the dusk of the year
we stand wreathed in flying leaves
and restless skies watching
the dark half of the year turn closer
remembering the cold that bites
beneath snow-filled cloud
and our dreams full of fire.
In the twilight of all things that matter
we lie down on scorched grass
and watch the storm clouds gather.
No rainbows will follow this deluge
no ark no saving graces.
No dawn will follow this night
of no moon and no stars.
From the dead tree a moon hangs
between poplar and oak,
between night and day,
and all this light floods the fields
in gentle waters, silent night songs,
sentinel of the dusk,
lighting the woodpecker home.
singing too hard to notice
the sun has set
sky blue as thunder
and silent as starfall
above my head
nights so full of light
and song dawn seems almost
come the morning
shadows shrink taking their
waking to light
and the last star awake
night still in my eyes
Walk in blue dusted with gold
specked with white and drops of sky.
Walk softly where the cradle of grass
and hearts beat in fear.
Walk past and let things be.
This winter evening
when spring creeps and thrusts
through earth running bright
the birds are singing
their wild songs
of love and battles
and the return of the sun.
Walking at dusk,
When mist rolls down from darkening hills.
Walking at dusk,
Stirring scents of dog wood musk,
Leaf-damp shadow the hollows fills—
I listen as a bird still trills,
Walking at dusk.
Dusk swoops and skims on owl wings,
grey in failing light where the deer,
faint leaping slender shadows
fill the trees with husky barking.
Bat-flutter and frog-laughter,
cricket-throb and the soft sinking of the sun;
such peace when the nightingale sings.
Along the border of the field,
A hedge of briar and robins’ wings
And pierced with secret tracks of fox
And badger—this is where I walk.
By the stream beneath the willows
I listen as the world falls silent,
As owl and fox reclaim their own—
I leave the dusk to those who stalk.
First in a series of quadrilles written at the weekend.
On a tree in the dusk,
a blackbird sits,
as daylight fades
to a turquoise blue,
and he sings as he watches
another day die,
for the night is long,
the moon too clear,
and the cats that prowl
have cold eyes of fear.