GLASTONBURY

I remember,
It was as if a green sea bristled
With cream-grey stonework, and in
Some rare corner, more complete,
A ruin stood.

The ivy
Luxuriously summer-green, hung
From the cracking, solid walls;
And all was stone, or grass, and
Both were clean.

The grass,
Exquisite – and so enviously laid
It clutched the squat feet of Avalon;
Reluctant to release the stark severity
Of decay.

To finger,
And to dust the edges of the stone,
Now frozen in the view of pilgrims,
Who see the leavings – incomplete,
Yet perfect.

And outside
The grass is grey, and brittle.
The tarmac spans the gap and
As closely joins the pub and
Post-office.

c. 1957
DAWN
Clouds laced against the pink
And scudding westwards overhead,
While leaves pick solitary shadows –
Silhouettes against the sky.

Sharp air knifing on the trees;

Impartial muffled moves
And songs advance from pipes of fir,
And reeds, and opening flowers.

The soft, low call of orange chaos

In the east; the rise of light
And fan of pearl; the clouds are
Racing in the pink – the blueing air.

c. 1957

INTERLUDE
You came upon me then,
And I, surprised cannot remember
How she looked, or how
She smiled. Yet somehow
I seem to see a likeness –
A reflection, as it were,
Yourself in hers returning.

And yet the memory fades,

New pictures take its place.
I see her as your mind portrays
The scene, and none too sound
It is, but warped a little
By the jealous thoughts you harbour.

And is this vision false?

My thoughts are too like yours to say.

FLY HARD

Fly hard
Against the grey matrix
Of sky and cloud,
Out, under cutting winds,
Out, where the sea is cold.

Race on
Through hollow blackness
Down the swift horizon
Out to sea. To sea –
The oceans undivided.

Fly hard
The water calm and brown
Against the landfall;
Hard down the avenue
Of hearts – dropped anchors.

SOLITUDE

Strange island
Solitary, sailing on
In seas of shells and sliding
Through the years

Vast reaches
Sadly stretch away
To hills still hazed
And far.

The empty
Air and quivering
With the beat of sound
From distant sun.

The green slope

Edging from the woods
And springing turf;
A dream of love

Slow aching
Void and vortex
Warm sweet water
There to dip
And deeply feel
The tight and cool
Of calm – and leave
The feet to swim.

The shadow
Of an island on the sea
And stretching oceanways
As distant as the sun

The quiet dozing leaves

And waves, all ironed
And disc-like water
Still and soft.

Philippians 2,12

So ought we from the seeds of discontent

To borrow time – a germinating time – and that
For deepening aspects of our life
And faith, that, in the meanwhile suffered
Such neglect.

Ruins do have their beauty – but it is

Of past and passing. Joy, that indefinable delight
Is like the spring bud opening – that so
Defeats the power and grip of grey skies
And harsh cold winds.

We would leave ruins for occasional visits;

Cherish to our hearts that which, because
It seemed to be held away from us – is now
The more ours, not in possessing – but
In its value.

So ought we to consider those brief moments

Of the soul’s torment – pulled this way and that
By inner and conflicting tides – a way
Of revealing – even if only momentarily,
The best we have

12 May 72