a turn in a half circle, looking southward,
a curve of granite uplands; and between,
within the half ellipse of stone and sight,
in which the broken peaks, older than Jehova,
have precedence in shaping function,
fields, many showing evidence of work
turn the other way, shuffle past the pub,
and the universe is glazed striped pottery - light blue;
dark blue with green; then green and brown
here the rectangularity of hedge grids
does not change the underlying circularity
of this end of present Earth, finis terra
(so much more impressive than English lands end
suggesting a state of things which needs specialism -
not just some water you can't ford or round
but the significance is read inland
where all directions converge or double back
as if in panic at the abattoir truck
this morning's a bronze age, flowering yellow,
chunk greys glow with the sunlight they have sucked;
green shimmering beneath white-and-blue
in which the moon floats, on bright Earth shadow,
tilted upon the flow of other gravity
a standing stone in the middle of the field goes on
study it
rub your head and arse on it
like a cow
this is an entire space to be
whilst its warm
each bare dry wall stone pulsates
with tiny spiders staggering onward, the road's
wet with them, briefly;
small birds hesitate and then flutter about on anything raised
hesitant and not quite sure, full of urges
listen to the first few insects hum, the wind lifting
your hair across your ears, your blood ascending
and descending the pyramid of the brain
not stunned as in deep August's greatest heats
but still as, before any opening out
the day time yet too brief and chilly daisied
Lawrence Upton
presently nomail here
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