The sun catches the clay wall
Articulating every trough and peak
In a play of shadow and light
Shimmering with the dappled splendour
Of the sun through winter oaks.
It is simply a moment – silent
It does not ask to be spoken
The fire is busy with flames
The air moving slowly with thin smoke
And the scratch of this pencil on the page.
The onward movement of this moment
The hanging crest of an eternal wave
How it sustains itself within itself
Flowing on soon lost to sight
Yet charged with the weight of every past.
Another piece of quick burning hazelwood
Another line of a short poem
A cloud comes to darken the day
But for the smell of cinnamon and apples
Which takes me from this page oncemore.
The Hermitage, Chapel Peak.