Immanence

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.

 

 

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