In bright Albion

Dear reader,

In bright Albion the flowers of a dead man fade
A bright brimstone fly brings a butter yellow dance to its air
No fire or fury

The blackest of blackbirds sneak in the shadows piping the tune of stolen raspberries
This is the life of this soul
This gardener
This colourless plot
This 'working class' poet and artist

I shrink from authority and superior wisdom
The devil is in detail and bluster and over-confidence

I shrink back

This dry Albion
The land desiccates
Trees drop leaves and turn autumnal
The river is a stream
Patches of shade remain green while the exposed grasses have faded to straw

This land which is usually drenched
Has become iron
This is a metaphor for me and my drying soul
Faith's faltering on the cusp

There should be a thirst which I am not feeling
There is a lack of water in the well

The glory though is in the shade where the blackbirds are
Shade retains moisture
And deep roots tap

Hope is in the shadows- not where you'd expect to find it
It is in the quiet places

There is green
There is plumb and acer red
Orange crocosmia
Knautia blue and hydrangea wave

I'm patiently waiting for the yellows.



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