Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
deep-furrowed plough -
calm and still
with spring sunlight
From Blithe Spirit Vol 11 No 1 (March 2001)
He's in his element, finding his stride
for every two of hers, beating the boot-worn
path to England's roof. She gave her word
to go along this once, to climb her mountain,
but hardly warms to the "hard pulse of walking",
the pace with which they poach their bird's eye view.
Surely this unexpected tarn will win
the town girl round, this startled blink of blue
from sleeping green. Surely she'll love heath.
But she's short sighted, short legged, short of breath
and when at dusk they round the clouded peak
his heart drops. Her empty gaze brings back
that reason she once gave for falling for
and still obliging him. Because he's there.
Our eyes are drawn to the blue horizon,
the shimmering dot of the evening star.
We lose ourselves in the dance
of the moon, the darkening sky, the stray cat,
the pipistrelle whispering its winging,
the slugs who slither to lick our toes.
And the whole world is indigo.
I don't know how close you are, how far.
Our sadness chases us across the threshold
and there's nothing else to do but slip
between cotton and lose ourselves again
in the smoke of the blown candle. Your hands,
like no-one else's, the ring around the blue
of your eyes lift all the sighs out of me -
like the memory of something beautiful:
the moon, how close you are, how far.
The fog that is like but more rare
The wind that is like but not so sharp
The sand that is like but turns to mud
The hills that are like but more peopled
The flowers that are like but bloom earlier
The beach that is like but more crowded
The summers that are like but darken quickly
The air that is like but not so sweet