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A single day of alpine brightness
blazed through winter gloom.
It’s February, and we’re still new
as crocuses unbloomed.

I have stopped saying no
and we’ve stopped making love
since we cannot make love anymore,
so I've borrowed your boots
and we’re out in the sun
with the wind like a wolf at a door.

At the cowpond
you hunker beside the gorse:
No early frogs yet there
though the shallows are russet with humus,
newly thawed.
(I remember The Death of a Naturalist
but decide it's too hard to explain
over barriers of language,
and of literature unshared.)
But when I cry ‘Look, a lapwing'
you do not say ‘What?’ or ‘Where?'
Only ‘Yes'
and pass the fieldglasses back to me, aware.

As a muckspreader, up at the topfield
trails all of Cheshire’s birds
in its reeking wake:
The gulls a-scream, the wide-winged buzzards
scorning the squabbling rooks
as they scorn the sulphur-stink, like burning hair
and the starlings, shoaling tight in the cold thin air.

These empty hills are green and vast
The hawks, now blinding-high in the low sun’s glare
And all of the sky
is an ocean, heard from afar.

How wrong I was, Cheri.
How right you are.

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The following comments are for "Death of a Pragmatist"
by MobiusSoul

MobiusSoul. are the consumate example of "don't tell us...SHOW us school of writing!

You draw us into the scene and we feel the grass and smell the roses each and every small feat for a writer indeed!


( Posted by: Beatrice Boyle [Member] On: February 23, 2012 )

Thanks Bea
Ain't that what poetry is about?
There's a passage in another of Seamus Heaney's poems, Postscript, in which he watches swans in a windstorm:

'Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.'

Those are the moments I'm always trying, however inadequately, to capture raw. Thanks for reading!

( Posted by: mobiussoul [Member] On: February 28, 2012 )

quite a feast
I popped in here to sing my praises after Bea highlighted your poem on Majestic where I read it first.

You wrote this so well I can smell the air and feel the wind on my face as I look skyward for justification of my existence.

( Posted by: Pen [Member] On: March 3, 2012 )

thanks Pen
Nice to see another familiar poet face here. Thanks for reading.
I was up in those hills again today - I've never lived anywhere else with such a population of buzzards. They were everywhere, sky-high and calling like children. I'm not sure if they help to justify my existence at all, but they justify their own like nobody's business.

( Posted by: MobiusSoul [Member] On: March 4, 2012 )

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