Poems 1

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