Sestina
The castle is not easily seen from these close streets.
It’s hidden by roofs, where dare-devil rooks
flip and flaunt their skills on invisible bars of wind
with grating calls. There are clues, a gale-wrung flag,
peek-a-boo towers between chimneys, flow of folk,
then suddenly it vaults skywards, buttressed by white rock.
The motte is natural, grass and shrubs over white rock.
The path clambers upwards from the quiet streets
and on this windy Sunday in early March folk
work their way up, under the circus of raucous rooks.
Shapes of heads move on the tower under the flag
that writhes and cracks under the whip of wind .
Black-bladed wings fold and shape the wind
and ride high over the castle and the white rock,
kite and cruise consummately, mocking the flag
that struggles to be free to fly over the narrow streets
where wind-bent crick-necks watch the rooks
deride the plod of gravity-lumbered folk.
A chill, shaken afternoon in March when folk
outface the pluck and buffet of a hooligan wind
to watch the antic circuits of cavorting rooks
through the meadows of air high over the white rock
where the castle broods above the snug and tidied streets,
time-defiant under the flow and wrap of flag.
The path is steep, cobble-paved and spirits will flag,
as visitors in coach and car, joined with the townsfolk,
climb up the path and steps, up from the tight streets
through the flush of crocuses quivering in the wind,
up through the racked and bared ribs of rock
up to the highest tower, above the trees and rooks.
The wind rips tears from eyes that follow the rooks
as they slice the sky with jack-knife wings, the flag
clatters its rope against the trembling pole. Below, a skirt of rock
scattered with shrub, isles of crocuses, hunched folk
collar-raised, hat-clamped and scarved, that wind
up from the smug town’s prim and Sunday-silent streets.
They leave their streets and climb to join the rooks
that aerobat and ride the wind that rags the tattered flag;
commemorate an earlier folk who sheltered in the shadow of this rock.
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