The river’s voice
Echoed through light green-gauzed
Falls to rest
Among a fern and bluebell down,
So seeing the circle as a sphere.
So many paths
Flowing into the one -
In the hand
A depth of weight-
A new tea bowl!
From the hillside
Shape-shifting as darkening gloom
The pigeon’s mourning stained call-
The river cutting ever deeper the valley,
Night after day.
Leaving past the church
Taking on the steep rise out of Widecombe
Into wind and sky.
The abode of skylarks
Space between places.
Falling backwards into landscape
The unravelling river,
Edges emerging between light and shade
In the dance
Not of it.