A Grand Stretch In The Evenings

Every one  is saying;
There’s a grand stretch
In the evenings .



There’s a stirring in the hedgerows,
A rustling in the trees. ;
The sky soars ever higher;
As the sunrise backs  
Eastward  in the mornings ;
And , veers more boldly westward  ,
Less hurried  to its  evening lair .

The blue bell buds beneath the lusty trunk of  sycamore ;
The sea fog in the morning hangs  ,
Like gossamer curtains  on the sea
And dissipates  , as a timid sun enchants ;
And  its divests the hills   
Of  their  frilly chastity.


The sun slips over the capstone at New Grange
As it ascends once more on the Ecliptic
And the ghosts of sleeping Celtic Gods
Are whispering on the foamy bearded sea,
At  Spiddle pier ,
A haunting lullaby , to the  typhoid infants ;
Buried in the unmarked graveyard
On the  sighing  strand

And the wind turns round my house
Swirling in restless confusion .
Blows; and  the saline scent
Seeps  through my window sills.

I too am awakening from a hibernation .
I sense again what Moriarty saw in the limestone  mountains
-consciousness in hibernation,

Energy , confined , condensed and unexpressed.
It takes time to grasp that concept he’d said
But take it , you must . And I did . And it is.
As he said  ; an unexpressed consciousness in hibernation.
He said it on his deathbed , last winter twelve months.

I know its too soon for the broodiness of winter to lift just yet.
I just get glimpses of a promise in the opening sky.
From the lake dropping back each day,
Seeing my boat still upturned , but calling for a coat of paint.
The rods , the tackle ,last years flies


The swans are swirling in the estuarine current,
The mallard waddle ‘gainst the stream.
The Crane solitary on spindle leg ;
In the ebbing tide
The gannet soars , presiding  down the coastline .

Its too soon to throw back the curtain.
And the inebriate relative , home for Christmas.
Is getting ready for the long dry out;
But he’s  drunk again by lunchtime knowing ;
That this annual nightmare awaits.

And every one says;
There’s a grand stretch
In the evenings .

There’s a stirring in the hedgerows,
A rustling in the trees. ;
The sky soars ever higher;
As the sunrise backs  
Eastward  in the mornings ;
And , veers more boldly westward  ,
And  less hurried  to its  evening lair .