A handful of haiku

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melting, like frost
I change this crystal shell
to silvered light

crystal melt

still early,
walking through avenues
of dappled trees

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dark rust, you bolt the
plumed gauge, locked like night’s unkempt
and silent rage

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Sunday morning church
bells sound; walls high as blackstone
giants prod the sky

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The Dry Stone Wall Man

The Dry Stone Wall Man

All winter, he’s run his hands
over this bony outcrop of rough stone
where the yard meets the road.
The wall is layered
underneath his breath, frosted
with the air’s fresh lime, batter-boards
are setting out his course.
Through January, February, he works
the horizontal lines, guided by the ropes
that twine and quiver from the hooks
of rusted poles like shepherds’ crooks.
With a groove, a chip, a chiselled blow, he eases
disparate rocks into a space, feels where every angle
has to go, each stone an individual that belongs
and earns its place. The satisfying weight
is measured like religious vows—
too much, too little, its heft and sway
is ordered to withstand a sum of days.
And he knows where moss will take a hold.
His radio ignored, he stands, adjusts his woollen cap
and sets his sights beyond the road.
The damp smell of sandstone is ground
below his boots, the late sun is gold now,
cast on the roofs of the town.

dry stone walling

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It’s been a while …

…but I decided to resurrect my WordPress account today. It looks completely new and different, and I’m hoping it will provide the inspiration I need to upload some work every now and then. Not too often (don’t worry, you won’t be getting spammed from me anytime soon!) but just every now and then.

Workshed-Interior Laugharne Dylan Thomas Boathouse Houses.

(Maybe if I imagine the view from Dylan Thomas’s boathouse that would help too.)

I’ll update my ‘About’ page soon, but for now, I think I’ll just get reacquainted with some old friends, and say thank you to all of you for reading this far. It’s good to see you again!

Anne

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Gunnerton Nick in June

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Above the quarry crags,
above the dust and noise
beyond the flight of rooks,
where yellow gorse blows
in the wind’s persistent tugs
and lichen-braided rocks
show through the stubbled rye,
my fifty years are nothing now,
above me is the sky.

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Midsummer

osteospernumpetals

Midsummer

 

June is always a difficult month:
her honeyed light flows
as if pagan blood still ran
untrammelled, wild as roses in full bloom,
vibrant through our veins.
 

A yearning to the central point
is hinged on tides of change;
the twins ascend like gods, bestriding
heights with careless ease, to bring
a fiery-promised bliss.
 

Wanton and unruly,
she follows Primavera (in decay)
trampling, Machiavellian, over May,
and the sundial’s short, gnomonic arm
she mocks with psychopathic grace.
 

 

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St Kilda’s Lost World | Anne Bradshaw

One of my poems is published in ‘Outside In’ Literary and Travel Magazine, Issue 14, June 2013

St Kilda’s Lost World | Anne Bradshaw.

st kilda

[Further information on St Kilda, Scotland, can be accessed here.]

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LIFESPAN OF THE GENUS LYCAEIDES MELISSA SAMUELIS by Joy Bye

Anne:

Simply beautiful work, from Joy Bye over at Blue Hour Magazine.
Well worth a browse on a sunny weekend morning in June ….

Originally posted on The Blue Hour:

       3-5 days

to list

       through the wild 

       blue lupines

        

       feeding 

       on horseweed

       beebalm

        

       a light

       coating of sweetness 

       from their undersides

        

       rising

       in mass

       to copulate amongst the ants

        

       and

       kiss

       my cheeks with their lavender wings

                       before disintegrating as

        

        

          water to rock to sand.

             

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