canto viii

I reach the top
of the granite rock,
gazing down upon the trees
a rush of wind
flows into a panorama
and I can see
birds of prey,
two pairs,
dancing beneath ominous
looking clouds.
Seated on dry moss,
I look towards Blackingstone.
The beef cattle have gone
from the field below,
its freshly cut grass
leaving no trace save
a memory of their curiosity.
The sun emerges from clouds,
the wind quietens,
I can hear birds
in the distance,
the breeze picks up,
like a drumroll
speeding into its crescendo,
the sun retreats,
returning to quietude
beyond the clouds
casting shadows over
the tree-lined hills,
towards which I can
see a field of cows
casually grazing
beneath a dizzying sky
in a spectrum of
white fading to azure,
looking downwards,
memories fade into mysteries
hidden among the
swaying bracken
with intervals of silence
as the sun reappears
in calm equanimity.

Thistles visited by butterflies
peer over the tall fescue
leaning into the wind
as they conceal dandelions
and buttercups concentrating
upwards to the sun
disappearing through itinerant clouds.
The sound of the river
drifts from behind the
hedge to converse with
the jostling of leaves,
the breeze weaving a
melody between itself
and silence, to
the river’s ever-changing
constant, while shadows
flicker upon the field
in a warm embrace with light.