LIMESLADE
Early morning, a bay opens
out towards an inconsistent sea,
a greasy haze on the quiet
surface of the water
where a labelled can floats
free with the tide’s pulse.
Nearby another artery of communication
hardens as the day’s strength of light
climbs to shape the colour of this scene
where cold steps descend,
witnesses of insecure waves
expanding towards an unsettled horizon.
JOHN CLARE’S CREMONA VIOLIN
He held a wedding gift
from Hessey his London publisher
in his Helpstone hands.
The landscape’s minutiae
he knew by heart and loved,
it listened for the beating of his heart
true to the countryside’s inhabitants,
owl, hedge-sparrow, wren,
the flight of insects,
field-cricket, fox, the ancient badger
that sensed the sounds and rhythms
he’d observed.
When Clare played his violin
on a Northamptonshire night,
the bar was full of promises,
boasts oozed through cracks.
Turning for a moment
he closed his eyes,
concentrated on a note
which circled everyday lives,
waited patiently for
the urgent tempo of the dawn light.
AT RHOSSILI
A trinity of hang-gliders
already mobile
turn and furrow
along fertile strips,
the unique day’s tide
breaking on the exposed sand
below with naked ribs of oak.
Landscape assimilates
the past,
recalling history,
a lost village,
limestone deposits born
as mud in a shallow,
warm sea.
Vivid sails now wander
across this space
to witness shadows of aerobatic
survivors caught within
time’s churning imagery.
LISTENING TO BASIL BUNTING READING
5th February 1982, Keats House
The sound of Friday evening rain
on February streets
full of damp shadows and electric lights.
A bearded man
entered a restored
house and sat down inside
the Brawne rooms,
his cupped fingers
held grey smoke
which curled from
a Players cigarette,
as he smacked
with appreciation
the glass of red wine
from a table
covered with books.
He spoke of meeting Yeats
who by heart
recited twenty lines from
To Peggy Mullet,
as words from
Briggflatts and What the Chairman Told Tom
filled the generous air.
A silent conscience
in a fine room.
The dark wind of time.
Do those “weeping oaks grieve?”
And how sadly he said
“I was in love with Regents Park.”
FREE
I held it in the wrapping of my hand,
felt the drum of its life,
a stir echoing like secrets
unwinding to places it knew;
finding wings, a declaration,
a passport to flit
as I relaxed my touch
to allow imagination’s untethered
flight to form again.
This music of a receding wilderness,
a life unlocked,
destiny re-won,
praised aeronaut
Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including The London Magazine, Wasafiri, Poetry Wales, Cyphers, and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). His collections include Cuffs (Rack Press) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).