“A washed corpse, the body of rain-drenched trees
That below my window darkens further. In
Rememberance. Grave blankets of dusk over it.
Cold sheet of mist over it. Death a bird shadow
On the sill. This is the plot of my consideration.
The copse below my window, the small wood
Without an oracle, with no significant episode.
It is a hand’s breadth. It is a small ache.
The hand knocks at the window. The window opens.
The smell of wetted dirt and wild fruit steps
If you stand above woods the tree
Is one. It is many, if you walk below. Many,
If you step past the stations of your thought
And number your steps. Smaller and smaller.
The faculty of expansion decreasing. The faculty
Of breath decreasing. The rain withdrawing
With a whistling hush.”
Two extracts from ‘Past the Stations’ by Brigit Pegeen Kelly – from her book, Song.
And, if you’d like more, there is also this. Where I would one day like to go and stay in the house of the future, listening to the waves rasp the black rocks while I type. Or while on the shore I try thinking of poems that are worthy of the rocks.