Hay Bluff

From up here on the Bluff

The fields are pocket-handkerchiefs

The clouds below paint moving shadows on the land;

The Bluff stands like giants shoulders,

The heads removed,

They rise with perilous slopes even a sheep could tumble on.

The wind unseen but felt, blows all eastwards,

The grass fronds trim the purple heather

Like ribbons in a wedding bouquet.

Heather does not bow to the wind it bounces,

Its thick strong body grown used to the winds dominance.

Pools of water blackened with peat

With passing clouds reflecting in,

Beware the surface glossy black enticing you

To think that you could just step i

For all such pools have hidden depths

Known only to the moon,

Perhaps beneath the bluff faerie caves

Chilled by the haunting music of the wind

Played by an orchestra of reeds tuned by rabbits,

Watched over by a circling buzzard who alone

Is higher than the highest spur

And sees a tiny world beneath and understands

The vastness of the universe.

I stand halfway in awe – quiet on nature’s edge,

Knocking on its door – wondering if it will ever let me in?


Caroline Baldock © 2017