Hay Bluff

Sunlight spins a web on broader shoulders
of velvet age and greening consciousness.
We are where flocks drift as light snow
eddies in uneasy breath; climb

a leeward beat, where pitted turf
and splits of youngish river
twist and rip the ankle; hear
the clear spring and a forceful breeze

through scentless heather.
These dry stone pens have crumbled
since the trees were felled
and stock set free to roam

and they goad our heavy step.
So we wait in peat for fatter Cornish air,
flecked with steel and seams of coal
and cockles, cast in brackish inlets.

Deed lands press, as early bursts of May
ignite the ancient lanes,
that siphoned off a legacy
to war and wage and cynic’s ploy.

Some will tire of contest,
and the Bluff will take them back
with umbilical flex and canopy
or bookish appetite.

Now cirrus spells a warmer front,
and we may think to return home
before consensus throws us
into null and looming shadow.


‘Hay Bluff’ Ginny Battson © May 2012

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