From: The Stone Garden: Poems from Clare

Early

Dolmens in the clouds.
On high wires, the revellers โ€“
whitethroats, goldfinches โ€“
sing against hills (mauve or green,
who could say), sandstone mountains.

From the farmer

high on his tractor
each morning, a wave โ€“ stronger,
so I thought, after
our first exchange of words steeped in
the holy water of silence.

Morning walk

Always a welcome
in the wild places, some lone
warbler โ€“ a chiffchaff
perhaps โ€“ countering an oakโ€™s
wet sigh above peaty gulfs.

Last night

the lamp off, we watched
clouds, brute black barges drifting
on ten oโ€™clock light โ€“
gold at melting point. No moon.
An owlโ€™s cry. Summer gothic.

Summer

Breath by breath, taking,
surrendering life, I dwell
in the midst of wild
grasses; fields stripped, striped; spring-coiled
foxes; the sough of black wings.

Woodland trail

Lost, yes, but that meant
I caught the lake by surprise โ€“
its sequestered gleam;
the way it was polishing
the smooth grey stones it has loved.