The Dean

The Dean 

Moving quietly 'midst my country

A disembodied mind, observing, not affecting,

I take on the mantle of the land,

Wearing it and revelling in its richness.

Hot red dust and cool green air

Mingle and play beside the water’s gleaming.

From jewel like dell to windswept meend,

From cloistered yews to dark and clammy scowle,

‘cross rounded heights, the warm winds playing tag

With kites and buzzards, scanning all below.

The scars of industry are part of this;

The marks of human toil, to some obscene,

To others, tribute to endeavour’s toll

On those who strived to work within the Dean.

The spoil heaps, partly clad with scratty grass,

Bake and sweat, glowering between the trees,

The pithead buildings glow with red brick heat,

Their hard lines calmed by nature’s green advance.

Abandoned cranes, hot to the touch,

Their rusting jibs hiding in grass like sheep skeletons,

An old newspaper stashed within the cab,

Still open to page three, the workman’s choice.

The scars are healing now the world has turned,

The working waters; home to reed and flag,

To dragons, damsels, mallard, rush and reed

To shy deer, sheep and boar, and now to me.

The crowning glories of this glorious land;

Primeval woodland, still untouched by mind,

Twisted, dark and dense with scattered trails,

Existing side by side with cash crop pine;

Two river valleys clasping round the heights,

Their silver beauty holds the Dean within,

The rolling woodland hills and scattered fields,

The secret places only you may know.

   13/05/08

I kept this plain and simple. No other was needed.