Poetry by Clive Johnson, author of The Dica Series
This earth, that from the sun averts its gaze,
As if to say, “You have forsaken me,”
Gathers to its darkened face a sombre light
Of greys laid stark behind bare branches black.
Hollow caw the crows o’er cracked-brown fields,
No longer trod by ploughman’s laboured team,
Long gone its tinkling tack and wake of gulls,
As silent now as was its coulter’s scythe.
Beyond, upon a hill not far away,
Beneath a plait of smoke in heaven’s draw,
A glint of light lets stray a lamp’s allure
To lead my feet in search of heart’s desire.
Pale lichens hang from hawthorn, ash and oak,
As spectres lent the corners of my eyes
Where dark tales as told a child do lie,
Enough for hand to gather coat yet close.
Over stile, beside a brook, on I bear
As gurgling fall of water here tempts I
To wanton wishes of…
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