The unexpected patch of brown, the ploughland
in the valley; two furlongs up the valley from my window
squares in a naked wilderness of curve
and order spread on chaos
a handkerchief of order spread on chaos
(four acres there in Scellog; oh a patch
on this great naked sweeping valley)
Robert Roberts –
the ash tree’s
moving branches
spoil my vision (naked twigs and branches still)
Yes it’s Taid, the old man, Taid
a fine old strong one and is thick like oak.
But going strangely.
Stepping
He is stepping down the length of plough
a formal step, undeviating
Held straight and high: a backward leaning.
and head held high
His feet raise strangely; high and strangely, slow.
One his hand and two his hand
to the seed-bags – white the pouches
out and there the falling arc
flashing bow the falling seed
the momentary curve and shining
pulsing up and curve the curving
one half down the next is flying
and still renewed the pulsing fountain.
Oh blind the feet, the measured pacing
solemn, dedicated pacing
The high proud head, closed, half-unseeing
stern in the slow
the ancient ritual
solitary silent dance and holy
The priest
upon
his god’s own body