perhaps the sun
rose up upon a different day,
upon a long
night through
hills and
haybarns,
toiling
along moonlit
roads by
trees, even
the nightingales
sang a
different song
and
the riverslope,
every blade
shimmering,
falls in the
river like
a caved in
bank
but the dawn
in a moment
walks across
a hillside
and
each shadow
climbs back
into shape,
each gnarled oak
becomes
newborn
you walk
on a pattern
black and
intermixed
no more,
only the grass
with its daisies
grows
as the road
disappears
in the valley,
the long
trek back
begins
like the sharp
crack
of dry bracken
in a forestland
startles
the white
brilliance in
the sky
is no flare,
is no illusion –
why, even the birds
know
do you see
a bicycle against
the hedge
and the magpies
fluttering
in the scattered
field,
each grass
glittering
with a bead
of gleaming
dew –
there, the glaring
oak stands
where the
clematis bucks
and crannies
in the white
fluted cup
of its
joyful running
now high in the
sky
different shelves
of cloud
appear and crowd
sweeping with
great sheets
of air,
for there the
dawn
rings hollow
breathless
a plunging
drifting shiftless
lunging
staircase,
and time
climbs one by
nine
in the soaring
fronds of
each stair
do you remember
the whiteness
of full summer
through your
suffocating bed,
the tent doors
sodden with
gobs of damp
along the creasing
canvas
and the smell of
the wet fields
and the fog
lying down the
mountain
in a clogging
shield . . .
but the
early fresh
smell of
cloverheads,
the thick aroma
of a newpicked
mushroom
and the dry-wet
crust of cow
dung coming
down the
smell of
august sea,
faint over
the fishworn
headland,
rocky in the
sandy lobster
huts,
secret in
the locked caves,
rising in the
dawn wind
blowing over
the old paths
and cow-gates
and near-ripe
corn ears
they hear in
their wet beds
the badger move
homeward
along the island
road . . .
they hear
the wasps
awaken in a
whirring activity
of wings
as they plunge
through the dew
cover of their
burrow
they hear
the duck
rustle in the
moor-swamp
and their cries
rise clear
over the muddy
alders
halfway up the
hill wood a
fox turns
in its run
and noses in
the sounds of
morning
vibrating
through the
mountain –
then it tucks
its ears
and ducks
under the
roots where
its musky
den shoots
black and dry
into the stony
earth
perhaps
they would have
seen you walk
in the wood above
the rose-field,
early in the green
wheat,
their mellowness
ringing in the
brown down
of the deep
thicket
where the mist
whirls and
lifts
and the midnight rides
over sunrise
if you thought –
it was grey
and bleak
beneath the
beaking
branches,
infusing
the squirrel’s
colour
into the
chameleon trees,
and only in the
morning were
the early screamings
heard, the
half-glimpsed
net of dimpled
light, gold
backs and
right between
the hollow wood
the shapes
against the
sky
these were
the new mornings –
but lying in the
thicket
they would have heard
the heavy rumblings
in the air
and the heaven’s
grumbling thunder –
and from a hedge
you would have watched
you know where
the hump bridge rears
in the stomach
of water, shot
clean over the shelf
of rain –
you know the long
path and the brickyard
marsh where a
long-footed coot moves
among the furthest
curled reeds, a ride
cock trembles in the
furtive thorn that
scrambles up the
bank to the current-
road canal
then in the rubbly
dawn the first wreck
of song, a deep brown
coveted glister cry from
the roaded grey like
the black sea rushing;
like the trundle and
thud of ancient transport
on the far side
of the false wall
in the sleep-lie . . .
a guttural whistle,
a contradiction,
and the broke is
up, dipping along
the clustered drag,
swip-free and merry
to a morning fresh-sour
and apple-treed and
pheasant-flapped,
sung high though
the black veil be just
slid from the trees’
faces, swung
low, sweet, carried
out by the arms
of others
well, then, you
have seen
the village daybreak;
show me the farmer
and the milkman and
the bluetit and the
long reflecting canal,
extend to me
the welcome you have
known, the beckoning
hand, the couch of
grass, the sleep
of naturality,
the fill
and the heard scream,
the lumbering cow’s
all-seeing eye, and
the thrice-cock’s swooping
glide . . .
she sees, and she
knows; but where
is the creeping
hand, enveloping and
reassuring, that tells
us of the wild realm,
the kiss, and the
sun in man?
in the waving
call of the highest
tree, moving through
the forest, over
the hill brow,
and into the sky
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