Ancient Village

 

An avalanche of white thorn

hanging above
our heads

in hazel twilight.

The night lights of
bluebells

thick around our
feet,

faint silvery
gleam of lake

between the trunks of trees,

birdsong everywhere.

These ancient walls whose stones

are moss-softened green pillows

are the skeleton
of a lifestyle that once was.

Hand-built
scripts of
lake-side
dwell
ers

vanishing
in the evening light,

in the centuries’ accumulation

of
humus and leaf-litter.

Cryptic now, fragmentary; 

no
longer
connected to their meanings;

too
remote from their builders 
to
carry 

the poignancy of their passing;

we
stop a moment 

to admire a bend on the pathway: 

white-petalled, luminous.

source

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