Hello old stone, weather worn and calm.
Glassy and wet, little rivulets still pouring from the summer storm.
Blood moss leaches across, and at the top of my thigh high sock
Is a strip of summer.
Shuddering as my legs tread the damp English ground,
Bruising violets and elderberries on dark familiar gravel.
I stand in sunlight parted by the church’s turrets,
and feel it scatter between the crenelations of my frown,
Adorning me a crown. I am blessed for a time.
Along the hills the flowering grass are synchronized in their sublimations,
Worshiping the wind, their holy animator.
For a few wild minutes the blades dance and twist and sway.
Sing, choirs of barley, of the bones of fallen kings,
Between buttercups and millet flowers the femur of St James.
Then, as if the spirit were never there, still air dresses them for sleep
And their gentle canopies bow in wait for the midsummer rain.
Which comes, as routine as disappointment, but of a lighter weight.
Again the giddy rivers flow, full of teary charm.
And the banks are lined with sycamores as the autumn in me grows.
Birds swoop and scree, and the king of swallows shows me East
As if I’m lost with out a key, and directions all I need.
The same ancient loss beats in my gut, as the shepherds I hear calling.
They say soon there will be harvests, and the orange moons
Will cloud my eyes.
So I have time to lie back and blur the damp English ground,
To let the grit seep in. And as a statue I remember,
All the love we’ll ever know is love that has already been.