The blind valley’s full of mineshafts,
sheep stamp in the roofless house,
at every corner a bird flies off.
Each step disturbs the listening grass,
the sun’s work on the worm cast,
the beetle labouring in his universe.
Lichen writes on every cliff
a lucid, undeciphered script;
ferns tremble in the draught.
Bones whiten on the crag,
slow crystals multiply within.
Water makes visible the wind
that’s driving a fine thin tune
through the twigs of the crouching thorn
to chafe it into flower again.
poetryspeaksong 