there was a pink sky,
so sweet were its flocks of angels.
all our silences were born
again, and where there were wells of sadness, there
was only a half-ache,
crumpled fine linen hearts awake.
we, with our spinning minds,
we find it hard to decide,
i am moving amongst the slumbering cattle
to prove this path is right;
gently nudging the past behind,
the kestrel hangs over with its roving eye.
notions of spring and fresh berries,
are dormant, dormant as the
ashes gathered in the grate,
sleeping like the giants of our dreams
hidden in the landscape.
i see them sometimes,
from pill-box high,
my hand at my forehead
watching in awe
at the growing sky.