from The green hills of Earth


...for the mountains hold many secrets;
from them descend alluvial dust,
pebble-strained gold, the rich clay seaward.
deep by temples of Force and Cauldron
lurk sheltered pools where salmon spawn,
to guddle millenia before Norse took to dale.
skald settled where Roman, Brigand, Pict
had taken stance by drumlin, ford;
continuous the generation of earthwork, stone.
shielings carved from forest fells: snug havens.
the dales ridged by green bracken, brown heather.
Shepherds exist, survive; by name; by blood; sacrifice.
peatsmoke, root patch; choose the humblest hearth.
high pastures where keen clear atmosphere
satisfies wanderlust; assuage lost kinsfolk
who pursue Byzantium.
mountains hold many secrets; close septs
who know their own. to impose respect:
to be of the moor, the high places,
the oldest gods, the oldest values.
simplicity. music. poetry.
prelude of incursion? history.
the North, not of city but hamlet,
has spawned many Lords: few return.



Vision


Homecomings heartcomings
Long winter night's roamings
White snow squelching on the great paved step
Bird tracks flecking the dog toed ground
Yellow light seeps from our window
Where a shaggy black nose squirms
Howls for just one chance
to place those soft saucers
( in marvellous white snow )
and even chew a rabbit
And over all the gentle moon
gazing down crispen true
through familiar branches climbed each one
and dappled now by white snow
And the white snow squelching down the path
as we set off for the town



Leaving Aycliffe


Leaving Aycliffe early on an Autumn morning,
A brilliant sun sitting low on the horizon;
My father's chair empty, my mother's chair empty.

I have collected my special items from the house.
My christening mug, the Toby Jug Winston Churchill,
A plate painted and fired by Aunt Phemie's hand.

Books given as school prizes and an early copy
of `Ivanhoe', `The Last of the Barons', `Kim';
Now the cupboard is bare. I take nostalgia with me.

A pheasant etched on titanium. A Swiss chalet musical box.
An NSPCC plate the very image of Little Mut and William.
Sally and Diana at the Summit. `The Golden Treasury'.

The house is to go on the market. My mother has given it up.
She is resigned to the nursing home for the rest of her days.
She needs constant attention. So Fritz Cat and I head South

With our loot. I went over the house from top to toe.
First in the queue before my brothers and their wives.
My father's chair empty, my mother's chair empty.



Plants


I will never stop writing about Coatham Mundeville.
I design the books that will last forever,
And put Susan at the centre.
No woman would want to marry me
As long as she is on the planet.
The only certain thing about Susan is that she will behave badly,
Like a creature out of Jane Austen.
It is rough without you, Susie.
I do the best I can.
Long may you run.

I will never stop writing about Coatham Mundeville.
Yesterday I started work on my garden for this year.
I dug out the twenty-year-old roses,
Ruining my back and my gloveless hands.
Today I bought replacement plants and installed them:
White, yellow, pink and red.
Tomorrow I must buy seeds of alyssum, pansies.
I haven't been involved with my garden for fifteen years.
But now in my retirement
It is time to be creative.

I will never stop writing about Coatham Mundeville.
It is better to love than to be loved.
Tell the truth but tell it slant.
I have planted cuttings of my lamb's ear, snow-in-summer,
I hope it was not too cold last night,
It is a time for fertility.
'I went out in the morning air
 For it was that time of year,
 I looked out over my green domain
 And said: Death hath no fear.'



Prince Heathen


It is twentytwo years
Since Martin Carthy chanted 'Prince Heathen'
Amongst the trestled wooden tables
Of the upstairs room
At the Golden Cock pub
In Tubwell Row, Darlington.

Now in Bath I listen to it on CD.
That night we talked of Dylan
And 'Lord Franklin'.
This night I ask if all is said.
I was the pagan who took the West by storm.
'Oh Lady will you weep for me'

'The minstrel boy to the war is gone
 In the ranks of death you will find him'
That was when I wrote 'The Mong':
Swathes of horsemen hurling themselves against Europe
Taking revenge for 'Roncesvalles'.
'Oh Lady will you weep for me'

The antiquated engines of love trundle out,
I have forgotten how to write poetry.
Then it was Spring, soon it will be Fall
The Summer has passed in holiday.
I sent out the horsemen for sport.
'Oh Lady will you weep for me'



The ruined chapel


After all these years
I return
To the empty chapel at the world's end.
The citadel by the sea is vacated,
The chapel a desolate ruin in the forest,
The horsemen ghosts.

I look at the white-trumpeted green convolvulus
Climbing over the ruin.
Bare branches on the trees. No leaves.
I have no imagination,
I cannot visualise back twenty years.
The path is overgrown with brambles and creepers.

We came this way in the days before Autumn
Once upon a time.
Hang out your brightest colours
I need words to confirm the truth of this,
The grey stone-built chapel in the clearing
Where all questions are answered.

Two candles and two red-backed bibles,
A silver cross, loot for black-robed horsemen,
The greatest cathedral north of the Alps
Fallen into disrepair.
The forest is full of the sparkling birds of Summer
The music flutes and I return.



Douglas Clark, Bath, Somerset, England ....
 http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com