.
Undomesticated. A great grey
Migrainous cramp of rock,
Squeezed, compressed and scoured
To treeless dryness, and in the air,
The noise of waters underground.
Bloody-minded sort of place, it looks,
Where old faiths shrivel, old names are defaced.
But out of these barren flags, this crazed landscape,
Jut the resilient heads of a melting-pot
Of flowers from the high and cold, the low and hot,
The wet, wet places. All at ease on this rockface.
Like finding love in someone disliked at first.
And the boy out shooting rabbits put his fingers
In a rocky crag, touched the smoothness
Of a king's gold breastplate left behind
At Gleninsheen. These flybynight findings
Wait within gunshot in unpromising places -
Gold breastplates, gentians, happiness-ever-after.
.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
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Good post. Reminds me of a place where I camped one winter in the Snowy Mountains. A place known to locals as London Bridge. I heard the water rushing underground. There wwas said to be gold there, but I did not find any. And the old flintlock pistol that had been hidden under the hearth stones of an old cabin there had been found and removed before I got there! All I found was its hiding place.
ReplyDeleteRegards.