Heavy metal, thinly sailed, is cast

Like toy, and dropped onto the stone.

Hedges bend, bow and form

New writhing shapes – grotesques –

Their twisted tongues malforming names

Of foolish men who thought to tame

The wild and winds of Cumbria…


And yet, from this we do emerge

In harsh, unruly tufts of grass

And mud that drains off torrents passed.

Bleached and battered, humbled, mute

To greet like rite the coming Spring

With eyes washed clean of Winter.


©Stephen Tanham 2022

Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being.

http://www.thesilenteye.co.uk and http://www.suningemini.blog