Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Heard the wind rustling or rushing through the leaves. Now I know why the valley has that name.
Who were these invaders?
Haunting the holloways, harrowed by hooves;
feeling our footfall fragment the flint.
Scanning the canopy’s inosculation,
we glybe through glossamer and squint in the glisk.
Dustsceawung is unavoidable:
dreams flit into smeause, like mice through a crack;
dilemmas dissolve through smoot holes.
Preoccupation is piffling to us.
We head for a hill-fort; spy on a settlement,
among the shadowtracks and shivelights
at the selvedge fray of a sown field.
After a shower, a pungent petrichor
permeates nostrils and a landskein
looms over the horizon, like smoke from their huts.
Soon it will be wolf-light; eawl-leet softens
and Heimweh’s heft hirples our hearts,
so we summon the sun wane
on the suthering tide, where we tied our ships.
May a spanging breeze freeze the salt in our beards!
Helmsmen, we long for the Hran-rad and home.
A quennet for a woman who made a fortune with her pen:
fourth daughter Gloucestershire born Mendip Hills
religious tracts pastoral plays Sunday education
‘strange affair’ Bleeding Rock jilted female
strange plays female education pastoral landscape
Aeolian harp, Alpenglow, dendrology, gibbous moon, Il Bosco Che Suona, luthier, Magnificent Sorella, master craftsman, Mother nature, musical instrument maker, Pale di San Martino, terroir, topography, Val di Fiemme, violin
btristan Predazzo (TN) 5 Sept, 2009.
L’abete di risnanza gives you wood
from the Val di Fiemme, the Magnifica Sorella.
In that forest of harmony is Spruce,
cradled by Pale di San Martino;
warmed in turn by Alpenglow and then chilled.
Prolonged, reduced solar activity
narrows its rings; matches them to your wrinkles.
Your belly has developed fine grain lines;
your voice has a sylvan modulation.
You haunt Il Bosco Che Suona,
a seasoned genius, skilled in selection.
Work is a divertimento for you.
The gibbous moon is your precise signal
to select the slow-maturing timber
to be quarter-sawn; air-dried in your shop.
The vibrating air, combined with your breath,
creates singing sap, needles, resin,
responsive, like an Aeolian harp
and the terroir gives you vine ash for your reds,
which stain your hands, transforming you to live tree,
bridging the gap between man, instrument,
climate, topography, dendrology.
When your master craftsman fingers relax
and your touch becomes lighter and lighter
and Fortune fells you just where you have stood,
for aeons, those in your shadow will grow,
more vigorously for having known you
and your arcane method of fusing strength
with Mother Nature’s flexibility.
They will internalise resonances
from tonewoods subject to your discipline.
Autorotation will spread all your skills.
Though, in the beginning was Man and Tree
and an inhospitable mountain range,
now Nature has been given her own voice.
Extreme revanchism row with neighbours:
no statutory nuisance laws back then;
no one issued an abatement notice.
He was ‘the Brave’ – at war with the Hyksos.
It’s amazing what lack of sleep can do.
They just snapped over his noisy hippos.
A desire to cull turned to lust to kill.
We’ve all been maddened by a noisy pool.
The disturbance carried on the night air,
travelling from Thebes, up to Avaris.
Then his younger son captured their city,
almost twenty years into his own reign.
A little bit of poolside decorum
may have prevented an execution.
Users of swimming pools should roar quietly,
to avoid the fate of Seqenenre.
The unspoilt church William Morris was inspired by when he founded the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Monuments. A gem, sadly attacked by heartless lead thieves a couple of years ago.
Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart. All Rights Reserved.