cottongrass mist; and November.
copper
and faded memories.
whileaway hill rests in misty silence.
spindrift creeps
and a slight cold wind through the poplars.
water lapping over a stuck tree.
the river, bank to bank, like oil
and the faraway drone of a resigned dredgebarge.
an afternoon
late down the path of
the setting sun
thrown away:
time comes
once.
once is all.
dusk falls,
mouselike.
over the sky
stalking longer:
the man curfew.
leaden steps,
golden knowledge.
creepers slowly climbing the old house's side. like the gnarled fingers of an aged human, wrinkled and sly. The still Grecian countryside, pastoral to eternity, mists away through the long rows of lee
cold white crisply winter of an early snowfall, foot-deep and still snowing; flakes puffing spiral onto the settling whiteness of a climbing drift, and all the whileaway christmasses sledge by, rollic
5.36 am. Sunday 14 July 1985. Standing in the lee of a gorse bush on the South-East facing slopes of Hill wood, up from the old road. The morning is dank and misty - I can hardly see Sundayshill : the