TWO ROBINS

 



Two Robins

There’s ragged robin flowering in the orchard

And a sleek, fat robin singing overhead;

At his strident instigation

But more by my own inclination,

I spare the flowers from the mower’s blade.

SUNDAY MORNING - 7TH JULY

 



Sunday Morning – 7^th July

Not a single breath of wind

disturbs the slumbering grasses,

standing ramrod straight

or drooping with heads bowed,

along the bristling verge;

no movement wafts the drowsy scent

of creamy meadowsweet and honeysuckle

across the shining lane.

In the over-washed blue sky,

a single misplaced wisp of cloud

is fading from embarrassment,

finding itself alone and open

to the disapproving frown

of the domineering sun. 

Scarcely a sound is heard across the fields,

as if the warming day

has formed a deadening blanket

that creates a depth of silence

broken only by a chaffinch

chattering in a nearby oak

and, in rebuke,

a dolorous rook in reverent black

croaks back a single call. 

It seems as if the whole world holds its breath,

waiting patiently for what?

The hour when the distant peal of minster bells

slips over trees and hedges,

or just in rapt anticipation

of the sultry heat of noon?

 

WHARRAM PERCY (a deserted village).

 

 

WHARRAM PERCY (a deserted village).

 

Roofless,

but more accessible to heaven

than when the pious previously prayed,

a saved-from-crumbling church shell

and weathered letters carved in stone,

are what remains above the ground.

Below, the countless generations

cry out from mouldered mouths

to ask why ancestors do not remember.

 

There are two ways to get here:

 

On a good day,

when the clouds are high

and moved by gentle winds,

from the west you’d come by Thixendale,

up through Cow Wold,

where earthworks tempt the gaze

before the hard-drawn gasps of sea-blown air,

and burning calves and heart at Vessey Hill

bring you to the chalk-strewn ridge.

The way is gentle, then.

Below, the head of Deep Dale

sinks and broadens to a flattened floor;

a spring creates a cloud-strewn pond

and this, in turn, tumbles to a crystal beck.

Here, the solitary church

seems quite incongruous,

for nowhere within sight

is any dwelling left

from which a congregation could be drawn. 

 

The way is easier from the east.

A path made hollow

by the trudging feet of years

and flanked by hawthorn,

still white in June,

and cow parsley and buttercup,

slopes gently down before White Hill,

whose open folds stir

curious, deep-seated memories

that emanate the age of earth.

Here four springs converge

and must be crossed,

for better or for worse,

before the lost, once-welcoming haven

meets the wondering gaze. 

 

How many soles have walked this path?

How many souls have passed

on their last journey to the grave?

Many more than there remain memorials

to mark the dreadful truth

that once men’s lives

were valued less than sheep.