View from the Malvern Hills
Nothing special, these hills;
Tamed, suburbanised;
A supine Gulliver,
Put upon by old ladies with dogs;
Rutted-tracked and broken-backed;
Mouldering stoically
But at the beacon edge,
The hawks pitch and hold station
In the buffeting wind;
And the cumulus breakers crest the gaping sky
From Hay Bluff to Painswick Hill,
Like an anthem bursting
And in the west, Gadair Fawr
Ignites in sudden sunburst;
And beyond, Plynlimon
Ushers the milling hills to the waiting horizon;
And much closer, smoke swirls out from Evesham
Like incense
I am here and you are there;
And all we are is each other’s invention;
Meanwhile the weft of things holds fast
Impassive, refusing readmission;
And we clutch and tumble headlong like spore
And are gone.
