Thursday, 26 February 2015

Untold Stories



The hours that make a Saturday
- or a Sunday, can stretch,
if you don’t try too hard,
into years.

I wanted to see a ridge of hills
spread out against a washed out sky.
Walk in a Paul Nash landscape.
Something of this
was achieved.

A lonely business, trekking
through silvery grass, sheep
like fat clouds penned in
between my present space
and the mid-horizon.

If only I knew, as I should do by now,
how to read this landscape,
its ridges, hills and hollows
I could tell you something
of its story.

Instead, I stand here watching
a sheet of rusted iron tied to a post
flap in the wind, tongue-tied,
illiterate: only my thoughts
to tell.

A whorl of pearl in the grass
and a trench that might have
been a part of an ancient war.
A tree twisted at a crazy angle
yet still thriving.

Fortunately, no flowers grow here
and I never did get around
to saying just exactly
what it was
I meant.

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Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

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