Poem 3

Dew dropping off bristle bent

Like church bells

Wets padded turf

Which pricks with new blades

Growing through the moorland fleece.

Misplaced quartz,

Broken from lurking granite underneath

That welds green shoots to hard earth

Sparkles grey as quiet treasure,

Having arrived by huge bellows of wind which

Sifts river gravel from violent waters,

Chucking it,

Strewn over the beds in the night.

The rock waits for yesterday’s creatures to

Settle underneath

And marvel at how it moved.

Then, a beetle

Leftover from the dark purple sky and

Dazed by a morning paradise,

Inspects, with it’s ball-jointed legs,

Its alien find.