Now that's a poem Mossy!
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Now that's a poem Mossy!
This was just on at the end of Cloudspotting on BBC4....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMP0H5DQJX4
Lovely!!
Way too much cloud over here today. What a soggy day.
The Cloud by Percy Bysshe ShelleyI bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
Loved the Shelley HHH. It reminded me of those Joni Mitchell lyrics
"Rows and flows of angel hair,
And ice cream castles in the air,
And feather canyons everywhere,
I've looked at clouds that way. "
The Blackthorn Hare
On a cold and wild December morn
In a field down under old Blackthorn
In a rushy patch the brown hare slept
As through the field a dog fox crept.
The big red fox's cunning mate
A vixen waited by the gate
There by the gate she quietly lay
She knew the hare would come this way.
Upwind the fox was drawing near
He did not wish the hare to hear
For him it was a hungry night
And badly did he need a bite.
But the hare awoke and pricked one ear
He sensed danger was somewhere near
Then bolted from his cushy seat
This hare would not be easy meat.
Out of the rushes he did race
The angry fox was quick to chase
He ran the field up to the gate
Where the hidden vixen lay in wait.
The vicious vixen dived to kill
But missed the prey and took a spill
The vixen in a coat of mud
Chased with the fox thirsting for blood.
At Blackthorn bridge the hare turned right
He had travelled this way every night
His little heart began to pound
The foxes they were gaining ground.
The foxes quite a speedy pair
Drew level with the dodging hare
They thought the hare was going to yield
That they would kill him in this field.
But little did the foxes know
That two months short of a year ago
In coursing meetings throughout the Land
This hare had left fleet greyhounds stand.
A poacher caught him with a dazzler light
On a wild and dark october night
He blindly ran into the poacher's net
That night he never will forget.
The awful feeling of shock and fear
When the poacher seized him by the ears
Then put him in a brown cord sack
And carried him off on his back.
For him ten quid the poacher got
And to a poacher ten quid is a lot
He sold him to a Coursing Club
And drank the money in a pub.
He never ever could forget
The way he dodged and cheated death
The way he gave the hounds the slip
Their mouths wide open for to rip.
Those bitter nights so cold and dark
He spent in unsheltered Coursing Parks
With not much to eat and in poor shape
In a little plot called 'the escape'.
From the escape he heard his comrades die
He listened to their painfull cry
He listened with a throbbing heart
As the hounds they tore his friends apart.
The human faces all about
The way they used to cheer and shout
The judge upon a noble steed
Instilled in him great fear indeed.
The Coursing Season it was done
His well earned freedom he had won
They set him free in Blackthorn Dell
Since then he knew this country well.
He love the open Blackthorn range
The grassy fields of Kingston Grange
The sallies down by Hawthorn inn
The bushes in the furzy glen.
And better to be chased by foxes
Than in Coursing Meetings in small boxes
Waiting with a throbbing heart
For the hounds to tear your bones apart.
Again he faced a vital test
And to live he had to run his best
He could see the foxes razor teeth
Their mouths wide open for to eat.
His little legs began to tire
But the will to live it did inspire
He used his great side stepping skill
Each time the foxes closed to kill.
The vixen she began to flag
She galloped like a jaded nag
Her body ached her bones did rack
She quit the chase and turned back.
With weary legs and spirits dropping
The tiring fox he felt like stopping
On him the rapid pace did tell
As on they raced through blackthorn dell.
The gallant hare felt weary too
His little body felt like glue
He could even feel the fox's breath
But still he slipped away from death.
Blackthorn hill rose high and steep
The rapid pace slowed to a creep
The uphill journey it was tough
The dog fox stopped he'd had enough.
His race for life the hare had won
The fox and vixen he'd outrun
He had ran four miles at his outright best
And he took a badly needed rest.
Francis Duggan
Lovely Hes. I love owls, such mystical, stunning creatures x
Wow...Alf, that was a gripping poem! I sat enthralled until the hare had outrun the foxes. The only thing better would have been to have had it read aloud to me. Thanks for that.
Thanks MG, me too, I find the ghostliness of barn owls particularly magical. I'm so lucky that there is currently one who hunts regularly just a mile from my house.x
alight in the sun
the soft pink candelabra,
magnolia tree
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