as I in a thin cotton t-shirt watch the rain roll in
following the contours of the valley - up here
it barely spits - I feel a exhilaration -
to spectate at one remove among the clouds
leaning on this giant stone marked with circles
by ancestors passed - and hearts and names
by those still living - the pulse of myself
comes up through my feet - only the intake
of my breath contains this thrill of living
a verse begins to form - childishly romantic -
lay me down in laced cow parsley in that place
and at the time when the nettle and the daisy
reflect clear day - and let me slip into the bluebells
for I have no need of summer - when death
leads my by scented hand to endless friendship
what wind is this - I sip my tea - blank all thought
but the changing colours of the sky -
mockingly chide myself for believing
that on in death might truth beauty lie
The Blue Book
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