No more those dreams obscuring;
No more the seething streets
Burdened by buildings and noiseful, flocking, human
Life:

Instead
Peak, Fell, Mynd and Moor,
Each cloud only one impression
Upon The Way.

I am One, again, and still
Since the flooded swirling sediment-rich River
Of desire
Has long been left
Below:
Now, a small shallow mountain brook
Clear as Sun each day when dry-blue becomes
The Sky.

No more those mordent thoughts:
Each a broken storm
When fierce rain fell
Soaking such soil as bore me.
But seeds, unseen, fractured forth to seek
The Sun of life
And I had only to remember the river, Kingfisher-full -
That Farm where five Summer's found me
Toiling -
To renew, though late, my own nexus
Of life.

For She was there, patiently, smilingly, waiting
To remind me:
She whose Earth sustained me as I hoed
Happy even when rain, seven-hours lasting,
Lashed me.

Here, among the hills of England, is my home;
Here where Sky meets - gently, stormy, dry, wet - with earth,
And few trees rise, to resist:
Here where I, alone, can sit, lie an hour on grass
Watching clouds, wind-changing, moving,
Each one a message from one part of one past.

There is, should be, no lover
No house, as there are no possessions
To bind me
And which I cannot carry on my back.
So I am alone, settling to such age
As makes me.
 
 
 

DW Myatt