journal of a writing man

Work in Progress

'Walking the high road at Bancyffordd'

Walking the high road at Bancyffordd
where lost wool softens fence wires,
scrub willows scrawl the passage of winter gales,
and tumbled chimney stone stands in place of houses
a line of tall elms defines the sky.
 
In summer they whisper summer songs,
slow, four hundred years in measure,
gentle as an oven in the long afternoon.
 
In winter they cry of loneliness
     of loose shutters
     of frozen paths
     of Sunday cawl
and the complaints of sheep.
 
 
John Bailey
Somerset, July 2001

 

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