Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Little Birchover

I feel you teasing back the cuticle of the wood
Crafting this clearing from nip and nod
We nickname it other than known on the map
As our secret local upland Peak
Right here where exhaustion still can stalk

I hear you in throats of swithering birds
Blackbird plumping up leaves under oaks
With harrumphing tuts
Where acorns hurt soles with unyielding treen
Scuttle through beech masts and lichens velveteen

I see you drizzling sunbeams over autumn fields
Flattened by bonfires and the winter's heels
Firedamp flickers in the stars smudged frost
Planets glimmering out and over
While the moon's fragile crust burns ochre

I smell your lit lamp of cadmium and glass
Tallow wax mournful as the twilight lasts
Even the squirrel is dreyed and tucked
But your comfort salts my spirit's ache
As rays flatline then vanish in earth's dimpled lake

I taste you as love in the air's liquid kiss
Soothing my temples with powder-soft peace
The path from the wood runs its fingers through me
But you, guest and gatherer, map and plumb
Lead me home in your arms with your whisper: Come!

1 comment:

  1. As somebody with overly acute senses (at least in sound, smell, taste, and touch), this poem is both beautiful and overwhelming at the same time. But the idea of synaesthesia definitely overwhelms me. I see you tag your poems with it, and I can see elements of it in your poem. Anyway, fascinating language.