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.
