I love the wooden beauty of darkening afternoons
Softly varnishing the oldness of the sky,
Weathered like the brows of studious hills.
Stillness dwells in the air like a great thinker,
Pondering forgotten equations, hidden runes.
Clouds are flecked with the fires of beaten copper,
Skies limpid with the blues of pale oceans.
Shadows weave fingers through grass looms
As fields gaze blankly at the sun.
Birds grasp at the last utterances of a prayer,
Day vanishes like a broken pot.
Dusk is redolent with the aged interiors of sleeping cabinets, richly inhabited.
Originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine (September 4, 2014)
|The Malvern Hills by Ken Bushe|