Tuesday, 17 May 2016

Sleight of Hand


Through ancient woodland
With its call of time past
Echoing the woodpecker.


It’s almost sleight of hand
This profusion of spring
And now the pasture
Carpeted with buttercups too. 


Along this scarce trodden path
Wild orchids,
Sentinels of this moment.


 Folded into the forms of land
Time smoothed yet never stilled,
The last of the bluebells
Glow soft in the shadows.


 Pin pricks of light
A firmament distilled
This shower of space dust
Falling here and now
This moment this place.


Slip now any tenuous grip 
Let go the trembling reeds
Step from the mud of the shallows,
Into the light gathering form,
So to dream on and on.