journal of a writing man

Work in Progress

'On the hill above Ysbty Ifan'

On the hill above Ysbty Ifan
traversing the sleeping green grey oaks
dreaming of a neglected golden blade
a winter-dead sheep blocks my path,
irridescent, puddled in wool-wrapped decay.
 
I should not look on this. I came away
     came away
     came away
     walked away
to escape the business of death.
 
I turn upwards, treading sedge grass flat.
     Through mist
     through fog
     into cloud.
There is no sunshine here.
 
A broken wall below the crest
tracing the field edge, a notion only,
provides the back for a grassy seat,
a place to drink flask-hot tea,
     chew on crusted bread
     and weep.
 
 
John Bailey
Somerset, July 2001
 

 

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