1 August 2014
Untitled: a poem about Allt-y-bela
Written on Saturday 19 July 2014 as a collective poem by those attending the Open Ground creative writing course.
Chaos leans its back against man's perfection and waits.
The air is drying out, wrung out from the night.
Poke out, poke in darting black tongues feed.
Rough-hewn pavers marking patterns of movement long since obliterated.
Cock of the walk, trailing two wives, he gaudy and strutting, they subtle and delicate, quietly pecking.
The cockerel searches saturated grass, calls with gentle croaks his hens to the feast of slugs and worms.
Pecking, bobbing, strutting ceremonial procession led by the golden feet of grand master cockerel.
Silky-spun lacy hammocks of spiders' webs, sandwiched as an artwork between the window's glass and closed shutter.
Espaliered pears, arms outstretched but no partridges in sight
Carved ground the garden's soft underbelly exposed. Vulnerable and bold.
The hollyhock, pert triumph in cobbles.
Two beech bushes the round one open mouthed and his smug taller companion.
The rinds of hay rattle, in the thick burnt, yellow grass.
Turning, the shapes collide and jostle with excitement, around openings and routes around the garden.
As you turn the corner, the gentle whoosh of the stream changes key, to that of a bath filling very slowly.
Flow stone, slab steps, down to the stream.
Slow flowing bubbles on the brown, churned water,
Above the slow moving mud slung stream.
Un-channelled, water follows its own thoughts, aimless, gentle, a lesser being.
The muted but distinctive colours, nothing garish here.
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