Kilkenny

 

Trees.

White against the pale sky; reaching for warmth.

We follow the bumbling green lorry, and talk of:

Lyme Regis —

nearly miss the car park.

 

Delicate snow grass stalks the fog. A transmitter station hums, near the kissing gate.

We kiss —

cheekbones ache.

In the fields, wrapped horses blow warm air, and stare.

Ice over the valley.

A tiny robin hops in our heat.

Over the sty; two fresh mole hills and sheep shit.

A farmer ploughs worms for crows to squabble and dive.

Sheep crowd tight.

 

Horizon of giant pylons, hiss…

Here it is warm —

                        one lonely bird struggles across the sky.

 

Sitting on the valley wall — hot tea and ham sandwiches. A lone walker stands.

Two vans roar by.

            A volley of shouts, ‘how many have you shot?'

spaniels, retrievers, and ruddy faces

In love with outdoors and

death.

 

A green felt hat remarks, ‘beautiful day'.

Dogs bark, pheasants run.

 

 

 

Pooh sticks on the bridge

                                        I win twice and lose — once.

 

 

Green hands

wave

in freezing water.

 

 

Twelve shots …………

 

 

White feather

hangs

on a spiders hair.

 

 

 

Walking out of the valley, I remember the wild orchids in the spring.