In the Mist
Calling cranes cross overhead like ghosts in the gloom,
Bells echo down the hillsides from hidden forest horses
Like shots across the valley, voices and dog barks below
Reveal others on the path as invisible to us as we to them
Knowing surrounds only by memory and sounds in the
Silence, the mist expands our senses out like landscape,
Until the sun lifts the veil and sends down into our pocket
Of the earth, a gentle caress of golden warmth and sets
The sky blue brightness shining off mountain cloud
Shimmering across imagined land beneath silver shroud.
The Same Scene a Thousand Times
A painter can select one scene,
One view, from a certain lookout,
Turn it into their subject: treat
It a thousand ways, in varying lights.
But can a poet? Write a thousand times
Of one mountain range and valley?
Of all the many shadows and scudding
Clouds along its sides, and all
Aspects of the mists across its sky.
A painter can settle in one spot,
A cottage on a cliff:
Paint through the window.
A poet may install himself
In the same place,
But can he use words more than once
To illustrate the landscape?
Or once used, need he seek new views
To inspire new vocabularies?
It seems the answer lies in the
Lines, led along by eyes, looking
In ever-finer focus always finds
The mind inspired to write.
I have no photos of the scenes that inspired the first poem, but the second poem was inspired by sunset in the same spot I watch sunset most Sunday evenings, and each time it’s inspiring, but can I write of the same valley for the rest of my life? Possibly. It depends less on the inspiration and more on my ability I suppose!
Thoughts on Clouds.
There are many useful words
To describe pre-precipitation atmospheric condensation
Or as we call them, clouds.
Precise nomenclature of
Predicting what weather to expect:
Stratoculnimbus, cumulocolumbus, cirronimbulus,
No matter what construction,
Of scudding shades of purple and blue and white,
Whorls and wisps and fluffy tufts,
Grey layering over the landscape like heavy cream,
High, hazy hovering, herringbone brush strokes:
Thus do poetic panderings, pattering,
Find themselves equally insufficient.
Nor would a photo, nor even painting
Do any justice .
Nothing works as well as our unspoken
So we simply suffice with stopping,
To stand, and stare, and smile.