This poem is taken from PN Review 28, Volume 9 Number 2, November - December 1982.
In the West CountryTHE rooks rise, the pee-wits rise
Mud on the ground, cloud in the skies
Enough space for all those wings
Caw said it, the pee-wits signaled
Pouring over the empty skies.
I am alone within the circle
Of low hills, I know its ways
Somerton Moor, slight hills, great girdle
Green floor and most open days
None walks here without intention
Even I, when here, have mine
But the floors of all the oceans
Have no depths more submarine
Here we are under the heavens
As under waters, birds are fish
The sky changes, a shadow passes
As it were a passing ship.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?