Heavy metal, thinly sailed, is cast
Like toy, and dropped onto the stone.
Hedges bend, bow and form
New writhing shapes – grotesques –
Their twisted tongues malforming names
Of foolish men who thought to tame
The wild and winds of Cumbria…
And yet, from this we do emerge
In harsh, unruly tufts of grass
And mud that drains off torrents passed.
Bleached and battered, humbled, mute
To greet, at root, the rites of Spring
With eyes washed clean of Winter.
©Stephen Tanham 2022
Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being.