Night burst like a dam or a flower –
whatever. The rigged tents
taut and creaking as the breeze

felt its way quietly along the valley.
The sun burst like a dam.
A clangor of tin, and small fires
sinking grey roots into the air –

heat flowers; small rags of birdsong, but otherwise
a near silence the river embalmed
with stinking muds.
'Elsewhere, beyond the lines,
a force of near indifference, like a desert, closes in,
while overlooked by heavy, drifting eyes,
like a soft, continuous rain, falling by any wayside,
always the innocents die.'

And the long day.
Flutter of grasses, gradual cloud shadows
and light again;
the wet chamois of the horse's head,
the breathing cave of the the nostril;
yellow cowslip, and a deep

quiet, hanging above; hanging.
Ripple and chitchat; crumple
of scintillant water over a clutter of stones,
remains of a wall, weed-lanked,
green and travelling ochre.

Flit of a small and shy bird,
only bob, slip, wingflick;
and the slow, slow work
of leaf chafing leaf, new leaf on new leaf
kindling the soft green fire

which in August, under pulled back blue sky,
would burn, and would keep burning.

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 1994.
taken from Poems 1987-1992 (Odyssey Poets, Nether Stowey, 1994)