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After harvest, north Norfolk, August 2006
poetry
Come to the Edge
Come to the edge, he said.
They said: We are afraid.
Come to the edge, he said.
They came.
He pushed them
and they flew.
Guillaume Apollinaire (French Poet)
sundayafternoon
burgundy
late summer 2006
‘The Apprehension of Being’
The calling owl
awake is
And does not know or heed it is
still only afternoon.
The chattering jay
cruel is
And does not know or heed what is
the dark side of the moon.
The gathering bee
driven is
And does not know or heed all is
decreed to end so soon.
All else is still
somnambulant
replete
with stone-church-silence;
and rows of green vines
and blue distant hills
and hint of autumn bonfire.
All else is still.
Except
the two dancing butterflies
above the flowers
the three restless goats.
behind the wire.
And the
slow
slow
coming and going
waltz
of cloud and sunshine
telling of high turbulence
not yet felt
here below.
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