Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Saint Geneviève Guarding Her Sheep: 16th century. Musèe Carnavalet, Paris

Unborn dreams

The lady sits
circle centred and sublime
while past, present and future
revolve around her ordered perimeter.

Saint Geneviève
with your so obedient flock
and your black devil to hand
what do you offer us
on our weary way?

Do we need to notice you?
Do we even care to look?

And the angel to your left
fast hurrying on.
Flurried messenger on a
secret silent road
to god knows where.

Saint Geneviève
with your flickering light and undisputed piety
what exactly is your message here?
Would you have us stay or have us go?

Will you deny our unborn dreams?
Will you release us from our destinies?


Sunday, May 21, 2006


From the midst of the menhirs
It seems that the world
Was born right here
And here returns.

Eugene Guillevic

Thursday, May 18, 2006

The Water Goddess Sul? From the 12th century font in the Church of St Mary Magdalene, Winterbourne Monkton, Wiltshire

A time of dry and empty silence

Come stone
gently now down through your ages.
Down to a field of warm barley and soaring larks
whispering willows along a dying bourne.

She remembers the evening of river stars
each one slipping quietly towards the closing horizon.
She remembers the smell of rain drenched grass
and the cold crackling mornings of winter frosts.

Come stone
let us see your century shadows now.
Cast secretly before and after
the searcher by your side.

She remembers the leaf mould
gathering at her skirts.
And the lichen dripping wet
fresh again for another autumn day.

And where is the spring in all of this?
And where is the beginning of the new time?
Perhaps there was a time when spring never came.
Perhaps there was a time of dry and empty silence.

She remembers clear rivers rushing
and the blue and green of the fisher king.
She remembers the gush of the Swallowhead
fresh, wondrous and bountiful.

And where is the spring in all of this?
Perhaps there was a time of dry and empty silence.


Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Stanton Drew. A fallen giant: Image credit morfe & scott

Words pattering like rain in the leaves

Small and fleeting, hidden away down leafy lanes, poetry was spoken to a few rather than many, or it starred briefly in a crowd before moving on. But I like to think some of it will linger. A lot of poetry books left the shelves and I imagine the poems now, still flying around someone between Norton Malreward and Chew Magna, going at dusk up Gibbet Lane and crossing Pagan Hill to find the stones at Stanton Drew. Words pattering like rain in the leaves.

Rose Flint