Three Poems by Tina Negus

 

Dolmen at St Vivien

 

We might have missed it, hidden in the woods,

but a small sign "Dolmen" pointed to the left:

a white limestone track, two bright ruts

bordered with wayside flowers, dancing with marbled butterflies.

 

There is silence in this place between two small villages

deep in Perigord: no traffic passes.

Stunted oaks guard the place, a faint path

winding between the junipers, aromatic in the heat.

The berries gleam pale green or purple,

the new and the ripe together on one branch,

clustered amongst the spines.

 

The chambered tomb, so close to the tarmac lane,

so secret within the trees, is suddenly near,

the massive cap supported on four stones,

others tumbled around, scattered in the brittle grass.

 

Listen:

above two buzzards call as they spiral the rising air,

a cricket scrapes and scratches constantly in the scrub,

a lizard rustles in the dry leaves.

No other sound:

the builders of the mound could have left but yesterday.

 

The dark hollow under the roof holds no fears,

no ghosts,

nothing bad has ever happened here:

people, like us, lived and died and were buried,

in honour, in sadness, yet remembered in gratitude,

with love, and gladness.

 

Untouched by the modern world,

enfolded in the scents of sage and thyme,

the land inhabited by snails, hiding until the rain,

their empty shells nestled amongst last autumn's leaves,

cushioned in golden moss and lichens:

the place remains,

and will remain, a testament to humankind.

Green Man, green mysteries

 

He speaks, and the sound fills the void

with living green, life which sustains all life,

sunlight and leaf: our food.

He tastes the air, savours his speech,

his tongue flicking across the foliage from his gaping mouth.

He recites our stories,

licking myths and legends into existence.

He sings our tunes for us, our wordless songs.

 

He looks down on his creation from above,

sees all things dependant on his utterance,

regards us with impassivity or amusement: his creatures.

He weeps with us, and his tears nourish our being.

Within his sight, we live our little lives,

relying on his artistry.

 

He hears our cries, our laughter, listens to his own words,

and to our inadequate imitations of his creativity.

His ears receive our music, our rhythms and rhymes,

make whole our melodies and harmonies.

He tolerates our limitations,

circling, with us, our May-time pole.

 

He scents the honeysuckle in the woods,

perfumes the rose and the down-land thyme;

spreads the spring-time hedgerows with pungent sweetness.

He breathes, and his breath gives birth,

his respiration flourishes and bears fruit;

our feeble inspiration is derived from him.

 

He touches the stems arising from his face,

points to his mouth and tongue, and we touch him,

where we can reach, stroke the leaves, and the chiselled edges

of his nose and brows, finger the fronds and vines,

removing blackened spiders' webs,

decades of neglect.

 

Our hands linger on his beard and hair.

we ponder his origins, his meaning,

wonder at the unnamed sculptors,

question their intentions.

Peacocks

 

Rain, mist and midges:

Skye in August.

 

Oh, calls the large Dutchman, from the little tent,

the peacocks have eaten my Edam!

Yes, they come down from the hills in the night,

the man told me, my Edam is gone.

 

Oh, yeah? The Black Cuillins home to peacocks?

 

Has he eaten it himself? Or his wife?

Or does he mean seagulls?

 

We flee eastwards, away from storms and biting insects

to a wooded valley, a bubbling burn, a winding lane,

just right for an evening stroll in warm evening light.

Around a bend are…peacocks, dozens of them, cocks and hens,

strutting, calling, perching on walls and in trees,

shedding tail feathers everywhere.

 

Now, we never see Edam cheese

without remembering the Dutchman,

and never see a peacock feather

without recalling the lane

with its unexpected flock.

By Tina Negus