Go, go, go said the bird,

human kind cannot bear very much reality.

T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton, Four Quartets


Posted by Kevin Flint on Jan 18, 2017

Today’s leaves
darkened and darkening
with winter’s rain,
leaving millions
dead
in its frosty visitations,
but never
it seems,
warranting
headline news.
Cells of life:
Routed.
Eros and Thanatos
ever at play.
They
gift us
with still more.
More

more

more....

More than any containment
locked up
in poesy.
More than any mirth
unfolding
in the play
of leaves
thrown to us
across time and space
without so much
as a mention
of their play.

More than we can feel
of their green dance:
these sun-seekers
ever silent, now,
still leave us
their signs
colouring those traces
we have
of past runs, walks, climbs...



Today’s leaves,
soft grey and black scraps
still holding their form
covering the earth
with sometimes slippery
barely perceptible cushions
as we
run

run,

run,

carry on running...

with the Derwent
singing to us
from its rocks, eddies and pools
its ever-falling waters,
gifting us
with their musicality:
a symphony
of stones
sculpturing bed rocks
cultivating new watercourses.
Their quiet drowning
of thousands of leaves
seems to go
almost un-noticed
on any run.
Though winter
announces itself
with their departure,
apart from flocks
of birds flying south:

warblers and wagtails,
swallows and martins,
pipits and swifts,
there’s no fan-fare.
We’re only left with the dark
empty branches
that earlier in spring
held so much promise,
filling our lungs
with new airs.



Today’s leaves,
though quite dead,
brought to us
pure joy.
Their magnificent light
in the silent play
of beige, yellows and ochre
brought floods of tears,
a sublime exhilaration
with the body
drinking its oxygen
in the pure bliss
of two lovers’ kissing.
A moment
in time
that is timeless,
brings memories
of azure blue skies,
pointing
beyond today’s
cold grey toned horizons
to those dark
gritstones.

A moment,
once the source
of labours
lost from the dawning
of the industrial age.
A moment
marking their first
run in the dark
on the fells together.
A moment
directing us to something
unknowable
beyond our direct experience,
pushed up
out of the earth:
summits and scarps
created
before any inventions
of time,
of chronometers.


Thanks for your reading. If you have any comments, thoughts, suggestions and so on, we'd be delighted to hear from you.

Kevin Flint, January 2017