Here we are in October already. Time slides like the strange and graceful trickster it is. Days lived, weeks lived, months lived – I’ve been telling more stories than ever before, on the road with Hedgespoken, but new written work that’s made it through to publication is thin on the ground. Plenty brews in the notebooks and on my pocket recorder, in the bytes and bits of this machine. I’m learning some slowness with my poetry process. There’s less fire and a bit more water – there are a few more grey hairs in my beard and it shows, I think, in the words and that’s alright with me.
Here are the first few stanzas.
The Lapwing Stars
The lapwings have it, no doubt;
Seen across the field, their green-black
Backs are the measure of mystery
For every colour as yet unseen by the boy.
The thin seam of coal by the brook,
Beneath a humpbacked bridge
Of brick and moss over a slow lap
Of water: that has it;
He mines in tan clay with a spoon,
Slick with rain, as sure of riches
As an oil-baron or a king.
The coal has it, but it is not black.
The pheasant in the spinney has it;
Half-glimpsed, gold as a fairytale thread.
As the boy steps between the trees,
Time peels away like leaves of bark,
Century by century by century.