Before the storm.
I wandered in my head,
A hero on the ramparts before the storm.
Beneath, quaint hamlets, cottages
Planted into hills, glinting windows.
The hills in coming mist.
Face the dramatic sky!
Sheltered at the edge of the wood.
Imprint of boot, not my feet.
Leaf splattered, a whoosh of wind, leaves furl and spin
Beaded spikes of rush shiver,
Dead branch stuck in scutch,
Bramble flaps and slithers.
Nature’s pathos in my head.
Create the wood’s symphonic sound
Gusts dirge in limbed timbers,
A soprano’s song soars in branches.
Then a whisper, a zephyr on my face.
A squeak of bird song, in tune.
A romantic would contrast the coming gloom
With a forest path’s
Pinpricked autumn pool.
Would delight in the draft divorce of fern fronds
And their gentle return and hold.
Would appreciate a black pine‘s attitude.
Dominant, a Giant
And how it frames,
A little distant shore
White waves breaking silently,
Tenderly on Dalkey’s coast.
Stand under the unclimbable lead mines flue,
High round tower, in drama and storm.
Killiney in opposition across the Valley of Death,
Where men fell dead from lead,
Once and later bit by bit in their cognizance.
A drizzly front veils Wicklow’s peaks.
Hoody figures appear,
A teen’s banger startles, the forest is bawling.
Crows scatter, wheel and tumble
Without wings. It has begun.
Retreat to Barnaslingan Gap.
Mushrooms like magic swell red from rot.
Fireweed infests with wisps of skeletons.
Face the rain, my greatcoat drenched.
It’s in my mind. Stop? Accept? All is change?
Bobby Buckley October 29th 2013.