Dai
The cobbled gennel seemed a promise.
Flanked by old sheds that bindweed made gothic,
The air smoked with autumn.
It led my nailed shoes, clacking like a hammer,
Down into trees of imagining.
Slick and yelling, I rattled down the bald stones
To those woods of nameless places
Where even dock and willow-herb
Mystified the stream they shaded.
An afternoon below the woods
The stream spilled into river.
From my hill I’d only glimpse it,
Scrying the source of its evening laughter.
The gennel led there. I’d go half way,
And half way only; to keep the promise pouting.
I could have gone the whole way. Certainly I could.
But I would rather wade into brambles
Than know who laughed, or built the sheds and bonfires.
And so I still can tap the promise of the stones.
[Carillon #17, 2007]
Words with music 
March 6, 2010 at 9:09 am
I love this poem. Very evocative.