stanmore hill

i sit upon the drystone pasture wall
to watch the puffy clouds hurrying by
and answer yes or answer not at all

a common scene it never seems to pall
above my head the rushing swallows fly
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall

in middle distance i hear voices call
in joy or pain i cannot tell the cry
and answer yes or answer not at all

down the sky's slope the sun begins to fall
its orb will soon come level with my eye
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall

upon the rocks lizards and insects crawl
their chances in the afternoon to try
and answer yes or answer not at all

in the mind's eye it all seems rather small
the tale that's told is truth it is no lie
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall
and answer yes or answer not at all

taking a message

you go down the mountain to mountainside
the road is wet the clouds promise more rain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

the road's a bridle path a fool would ride
a horse or donkey from the hills to plain
you go down the mountain to mountainside

on the slick clay you fear each step to slide
the gully yawns below with death and pain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

at mountain's foot almost you seem to glide
but here there is a different kind of strain
you go down the mountain to mountainside

on flatter ground you go with swifter stride
the farmer in the field is planting grain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

the paved road when you reach it seems so wide
the blood is singing along every vein
you go down the mountain to mountainside
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

the prosper road

the tree seems like a giant stag above the pass
the road jogs up and down mostly southwest
the sun will be down before I reach the crest
and take the downhill turn the wind bends grass
on the slopes below the sky seems almost glass
so clear the dying light the clouds are dressed
in their finest colours almost they suggest
a heaven of joy beyond their ethereal mass
and then velvet sky and the small house lights
the road is rocky and its gleaming white trail
is almost innocent of trucks or vans or cars
only the locals get to note these sights
onward i go as sun's last glimmers fail
and looking upward watch the wheeling stars

more than four seasons

there are such things as tropical seasons driven by the sun
not just the wet and dry but the seasons of crops and fruit
seasons marked by different tastes with colours that suit
the times and flavours and flowers that are never done
from blowing on the shrubs and trees and every one
gives voice with odours that are strong and loud if mute
the scents and tastes fill the memory with an acute
sense of time and loss and distances that have been crossed
by each of us who can recall those works and days
when ships sailed slowly on the distant sunset seas
not for nothing are there words and segments tossed
into the recollection as into the bowl the many ways
that in the evening the sweet tang of the juices would please