A singeing bleak
Eye water, colours from thistle gripped nothings
Numb from a dissident space
Absence is minded by pale phased etchings
Embellishing braids of cinnamon briar, while
Flushing the tumbles of Old man’s Beard.
A Starling backed brush to the blackening fields
All riddled with meddling shoals
Turned ermine surrenders a rumour
Of solstice, remembers the Ploughmen
The tread of the horses that folded the beds
Of the cold, tired Earth
While, over, the plovers wheel.
41 year old male returning from exile.
Seeker of sensuous langauge, that which spells emotion into being.
From beauty comes a truth, a some time blood on snow
The wind holds more music than our greying walls ever will
Go and listen!..then return and tell!