EXMOOR IN A MOTOR CARAVAN
Spindrift clouds of silky white,
Spun across an azure sky,
Shimmering webs, as morning light,
Breaks and floods the silver rye;
And see the Quantocks stretch away,
The distant buzzard's wheeling flight,
Where purple ochre's fill my sight:
Another, perfect. Exmoor day.
Lazy breakfast, curling smoke,
Naked feet on dewy ground,
Coffee brewed on smoldering oak,
The hanging, humming, buzzing sound,
As dung flies hover on the pat:
Above, the carrions, wheeling, croaking,
Fry pan spitting, gently smoking,
And the cattle ruminating,
Cogitate on this and that.
Here, midst the charlock's ragged growth,
We stoop, so we can better see,
The marvels of a web that both,
Instills such wonderment in me,
And makes me glad that I can share,
With you, the joy of having freedom:
Bonny, Clyde- the rebels' kingdom,
Uncurbed and unconstricted here.
Plans to pop Aunt Mabel's paintings,
Sell the house, write resignations,
Leave behind the angry rantings,
Of a world whose machinations,
Make dropping out a pretty prospect,
Live and die with all the seasons,
Speak through quiet soliliquations,
Understanding every aspect.
Spindrift clouds of silky white,
Spun across an azure sky,
Dreams we dreamed in morning light,
And dream them still as embers die,
Douse the fire but not the dreams,
Draw them to you in the night,
If I'm not here to share the sight,
Of Exmoor's ochred, tranquil scenes.
Next POEM