The stream is running smoothly
a curlew's song echoes through the hillside:
a new time - a new place.
Brown leaves fall through grey mist
water murmers over pink stones
a late sun touches stone walls.
How quickly the air becomes damp
as shadows spread on the water:
red stones look blue in evening light.
And see - an old man with hair like straw
dressed in ragged clothes and old boots
there, by the water's edge
taking coloured stones from clear water
combing tussled hair with soiled hands.
And who is this old man?
A John the Baptist or Caliban?
An itinerant artist? A tramp? Certainly
a man concerned with form and sequence
placing coloured stones in neat piles
kneading soil with clay fists
shaping arches from smooth mud.
Squatting on haunches he gently sways
hums a low, steady, rhythmic chant:
seek a new time - find a new place.
Whose magic does he sing to?
He seems between time: Oedipus
with new eyes? Lear past madness?
Purple heather sits on grey mist
Shadows lengthen and bend like reeds
Black twigs cut an orange sun.
Suddenly grass moves and startles him
he freezes, then, looking round
(as if bandits were upon him)
collects and throws his stones into the water
lets out a troubled moan, then laughs
as ripples break and push against the flow.
A plover stumbles from her nest
trees move in the wind
a hawk scans his prey.
Now he's gone, walking I know not where.
His vision:
red stones by clear water
shadows returned to silence
a curlew's song caught in stone.