Stay in the loop and register for email updates about events, competitions and all things poetry.
sign up now
Open Tue 12 – 6pm, Wed – Sun 12 – 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday 12 noon - 6 pm, Wednesday to Sunday 12 noon – 8 pm
Bluelookout is a tractor climb
to where you see the South Pacific.
The animals who stay
up there don’t know to see it.
Bluelookout is the colours and smooth
texture of forest pigeons
though it’s ‘dirty’ in some folds
with scrub the old ones would have burnt.
Grasses of exotic green
radiate down its ridge lines
just how snow would lie
and the owner’s house snuggles
in close, not for shelter
but out of all the view.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.