When all the trees were stirring,
when the mountains, resembling giants,
showed worlds prehistoric in dimension,
<a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/adventure-calm-clouds-dawn-414171/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
clouds under peaks beyond man’s scope,
or possibility. Or, after the blackbirds had fought,
suddenly, a window opened, a woman called,
my name, or someone’s, boiling milk
to sterilise it. Always linnets, goldfinches,
in green upper-spaces, out of which
cuckoo, sparrow, skylark cloud
the mountainous air with calls.
So with prehistory : the enormous reptiles
champed their thrown-up worlds, and died.
I, hearing your voice, your love,
the window…opening, approach you, problematic heart,
the incredible world aglitter,
but sensing descent, mundane, long-faced, turning
I wheelbarrow-up the litter.
Grey dreams on ash in
A quiet train-station as
Time and people pass.
(Both poems from “The Light Of Day (I)”)