in town Saturday

February 12, 2011

In town, this morning, wandering up through the churchyard of All Saints, the views to beyond show the wet light. So much dampness still in the atmosphere even though the sun had broken through. Landmarks in the distance appear to be much further away than they really are. Strange!

I am taken with the tumbling landscape of this graveyard. The headstones cascade down the slope to meet one on the journey up. The lichen adds another soft finish to the stone.

Up on what used to be the golf links before the war, more views seeming veiled in the watery light. . . . landmarks recede and look ghostly . . . .

. . . the gorse is breaking into flower. Good strong colour that heralds spring. The willows too show promise with their orangey tips.

And the bumpy nature of the mossy grass provides small patches of shadow within the fresh growth.

Close to the cliff edge, tranquility looking east and contrasting business among the net huts and the fish market to the south. This week-end we celebrate the Rye scallop festival but get succulent local scallops from Rock-a-Nore. In the troposphere, there’s much movement, circling to scavenge what humans reject and also beginning the mating season. Roofscapes are being viewed and tried out as suitable nesting spots;  couples are getting together and making all the right noises. 

Round clouds roll in the arms of the wind,
The round earth rolls in a clasp of blue sky,
And see, where the budding hazels are thinned,
The wild anemones lie
In undulating shivers beneath the wind.

Over the blue of the waters ply
White ducks, a living flotilla of cloud;
And, look you, floating just thereby,
The blue-gleamed drake stems proud
Like Abraham, whose seed should multiply.

In the lustrous gleam of the water, there
Scramble seven toads across the silk, obscure leaves,
Seven toads that meet in the dusk to share
The darkness that interweaves
The sky and earth and water and live things everywhere.

Look now, through the woods where the beech-green spurts
Like a storm of emerald snow, look, see
A great bay stallion dances, skirts
The bushes sumptuously,
Going outward now in the spring to his brief deserts.

Ah love, with your rich, warm face aglow,
What sudden expectation opens you
So wide as you watch the catkins blow
Their dust from the birch on the blue
Lift of the pulsing wind—ah, tell me you know!

Ah, surely! Ah, sure from the golden sun
A quickening, masculine gleam floats in to all
Us creatures, people and flowers undone,
Lying open under his thrall,
As he begets the year in us. What, then, would you shun?

Why, I should think that from the earth there fly
Fine thrills to the neighbour stars, fine yellow beams
Thrown lustily off from our full-blown, high
Bursting globe of dreams,
To quicken the spheres that are virgin still in the sky.

Do you not hear each morsel thrill
With joy at travelling to plant itself within
The expectant one, therein to instil
New rapture, new shape to win,
From the thick of life wake up another will?

Surely, and if that I would spill
The vivid, ah, the fiery surplus of life,
From off my brimming measure, to fill
You, and flush you rife
With increase, do you call it evil, and always evil? D H Lawrence  Mating.

2 Responses to “in town Saturday”

  1. Cloudier Says:

    Ahh. The return of The Birds.

  2. julia fogg Says:

    Yes, a Tippi Hedren moment!

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