On watching nature’s drama
Swirling grey clouds race
Raven rides a wild west wind
Such tumbles and twists
(On feeling somewhat Pre-Raphaelite)
Fold upon fold of long low hills
between me and the golden evening light
bathed in mists, curved flanks
seem golden garbed limbs at languid ease
lovers lay before the gates of heaven
(With these sunsets and the atmosphere of the place,
it is easy to see why these hills have long been considered mystical.
The ancient celts carved the standing stones of
Stonehenge here before transporting them to Wiltshire.
Rejects, part shaped rectangles, still litter the hillsides.)
The hills are made invisible by an evening mist.
Against this a kettle of five hawks,
three red kites and two buzzards,
spiral in the diffused golden light,
unhurried, synchronised, perfect.
It is a moment of poetry,
of passion and perfection
that I am privileged to witness.