Although – these days are lovable, when the water breaks through the darkness, the dribbling flush over the wood, clear and fine, and up along the mud, the hedge and stone banking, a ripple in the waterweed.
The marks of a dog under the bridge in the flying arch of days high over the sky and reflection brings wonder to crygiving love, half-swimming to the long-legged island of truth; and the dark wet fish of a dog deep down to the drowned catch bites home like the bait in the song.
There in the rose-filled garden hope springs grassy, where the log seat buffets the appletree, and in the branches late down the night a thrush we saw sing bubbles, the global dance round in music, and time begins to die in the coal shed with its sleeping cycles.
It is never light among the coal, for there the mower chews its cud and miners weep for sunshine, but still is all and dark and lost and falling.
The beautiful home crooks happily dreamed, seeping its history to the canal, under the hawthorn bushes, through the wet dirt hole beside the first wing of bridge, there to look at its full world.
Then home swimming deep in the sea of love, yes home to the green and sward by banks of treeness where all the mirrors of years reflect beating wings blurred. And you rise high in this house, for the woman takes ribs to make a palace, though furry bushes sometimes glower.. I have the home in splendours of browns and ochres and steeling blues, felt its power ascending to the tune of Greensleeves, mournfully happy in its greatness of wife.
You can whisper my small brown girl, in the hallway to the roof; then your long hair will fly to the ceiling and caress the stars.
In the night the bushes dance on our banked lawn, their roots fiery with flickering feet, their tenderness making ultimate love to the black blades of hissing bed; and the music we hear comes down the water in long waves, out from the burrows, from the otter’s holt and the badger’s earth, being a song for a mighty ruler, not strident, not omnipotent, yet true in the very base of it all, of all.
Then I love you, my house of woman, your open doors are welcome, and I feast at midnight in the convulsive shudder of your seething pantry; the flooding orgasms envelop me, hold tight and drag me into the universe of might.