Scorched-looking, unhewn - a hill-top chapel,
Actually a crown of outcrop rock -
Earth's heart-bone laid bare.
Crowding congregation of skies.
Tense congregation of hills.
You do nothing casual here.
The wedding stones
Are electrified with whispers.
And marriage is nailed down
By this slender-necked, heavy headed
Black exclamation mark
of rock.
And you go
With the wreath of the weather
The wreath of the horizons
The wreath of constellations
Over your shoulders.
And from now on
The sun
Can always touch your ghost
With the shadow of this finger.
From now on
The moon can always lift your skull
On to this perch,
to clean it.
Ted Hughes
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1 comment:
Thanks to moss, on The Modern Antiquarian Forum, for drawing my attention to this stunning poem by Ted Hughes. moss adds that, "Elmet was the last Celtic kingdom of England, and covers West Yorkshire, and perhaps the vale of York. His (Hughes) words, as always, are like ice piercing through to the essence of what he is writing about, be it rock, salmon, hawk or river..."
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