Under Threat (Poetry)
07th October 2012
A whisper shivers through the trees, a threat hangs, wordless, in thin air
as dread anticipation stirs and fills the gorge with quiet despair —
they want another road through here; to gouge away the ancient rock;
to cut a dual commuter course, a carriageway planned to unlock
green secrecies — the narrow track’s atmospheric, tactile charm —
where time-worn routes wind gently round in single file and do no harm.
They have not heard the stream’s clear voice, its grey-haired waters streaked
and combed
by slanting beams alive with light that warms cool jutting ribs of stone.
They have not crossed the Devil’s Bridge and felt strange, dormant powers span
the unseen gap between what’s known and superstition’s netherland.
They have no sympathy for tales that fascinate and hold in thrall
with legends of a pack of dogs who perished in a local pool.
They have not seen the gauzy veil that hangs and hides the mist-soaked trees,
the sunlight-interwoven cloth of nature’s wildest tapestries,
nor marvelled at the warp and weft as dripping vegetation weaves
its softness over granite shelves in random patternings of leaves.
They’re blind to fizzing ferns and moss that bubbles forth from fissured walls
in vibrant symphonies of green — it’s not to them the spirit calls
but to the artist and the man who views the scene through crystal eyes
and feels a kinship with this place, where magic lurks in wooded guise
and dryads mourn — their shadows move to listen with slow-beating hearts,
await the coming of machines, that rumble when the wasting starts...
The gods of progress are unmoved by beauty in its native caste
but plan a travesty instead — a landscape fit for speeding past.
Publicity piece written for landscape artist David Bellamy, involved in a conservation struggle to save the Clydach gorge from a road widening scheme.
as dread anticipation stirs and fills the gorge with quiet despair —
they want another road through here; to gouge away the ancient rock;
to cut a dual commuter course, a carriageway planned to unlock
green secrecies — the narrow track’s atmospheric, tactile charm —
where time-worn routes wind gently round in single file and do no harm.
They have not heard the stream’s clear voice, its grey-haired waters streaked
and combed
by slanting beams alive with light that warms cool jutting ribs of stone.
They have not crossed the Devil’s Bridge and felt strange, dormant powers span
the unseen gap between what’s known and superstition’s netherland.
They have no sympathy for tales that fascinate and hold in thrall
with legends of a pack of dogs who perished in a local pool.
They have not seen the gauzy veil that hangs and hides the mist-soaked trees,
the sunlight-interwoven cloth of nature’s wildest tapestries,
nor marvelled at the warp and weft as dripping vegetation weaves
its softness over granite shelves in random patternings of leaves.
They’re blind to fizzing ferns and moss that bubbles forth from fissured walls
in vibrant symphonies of green — it’s not to them the spirit calls
but to the artist and the man who views the scene through crystal eyes
and feels a kinship with this place, where magic lurks in wooded guise
and dryads mourn — their shadows move to listen with slow-beating hearts,
await the coming of machines, that rumble when the wasting starts...
The gods of progress are unmoved by beauty in its native caste
but plan a travesty instead — a landscape fit for speeding past.
Publicity piece written for landscape artist David Bellamy, involved in a conservation struggle to save the Clydach gorge from a road widening scheme.