Ashbourne

Ashbourne
 
I've found I can walk while I'm reading,
heart pounding in her flesh bitten case.
It's not without, I'll admit, its hazards.
One may miss the bird of prey silently  
glazing across his canopy,
the idle sheep who graze,
tremor, wee in congregation  
as I wander aimlessly their home,
dashed the complete and unapologetic nature
of scenes of greenery.
I close the book, half way back,
stare at a manor house  
in the field above mine,
damp of the earth,
proximity to the unused,
only if necessary, road,
decide beside the sliced, stacked tree corpse,
moss veiling their wounds,
lichen kissing at the soft rot,
discarded wool left on the boughs;
rest the book in the wet grass,  
pop myself upon waterproof coat  
in the downs before a hedgerow step
and watch wind pool through beech,
electricity pour through cable lines.
They stand like alternative ents,
power rushing through each pylon
in a modern, life-giving way.
I'm not far from the house,
a sofa, a cushion, a quilt, a tea -
all a five minute possibility
but from here,
where I am no more sound than ant,
no more complicated than tree,
not contemplating the purpose of things  
but their beauty,
the simple, exhaling sky,
barely blue, barely grey or white,
a yellow weed I cannot name
luringly prevailing at the edge of tarmac,
that hill,
one of that manor,
is side saddled by trees,
each their own pedigree,
leaves varying with years old wisdom.
The dark horses graze by a long granite wall
and I contemplate standing,
or reading or walking.
I contemplate for some time
while the light fusing with air gently shifts
into wild shades of emerald
and mahogany, day's ashes.