Zanfona

Nothing is older than sunlight
unless it is these walls
which the sunlight even now
has brought back to life,
pinking them, gilding and glossing them.

In this hall, where the crisp silence
is perfectly in tune with the sunshine
and where there is an echo hanging
like comb hangs in a honey jar,
are whispers and sharp shadows,

shadows on the walls blending geometry
and cave art, their line & texture.
Touch them. They evoke something
exotic such as Armagnac or mead,
a flavour more than the sum of parts.

Woodsmoke and pears and running water,
nectar and blossom and mountainside.
And these are honeycomb walls, tufa,
dressed, in fact, but they are rough
as a working-man’s hands are rough.

Touch them. They are cold, deeply cold,
cold as wax or judgement.
And they are warm, warm
from the honey light, warm
as a thimbleful or more of liqueur.

And in that space you have placed
your music, its hand-made melody,
its gentle, buzzing drones,
placed it like a flower arrangement,
a still life, for the sunlight to paint.

Landscape with Man Scything

Mycology

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Lauds