I was born in a year of seasonal extremes-a harsh winter of deep snow and a broiling, dog-day summer of drought, wilting flowers and parched Earth. Perhaps because of this I feel attuned to subtle changes in our fast-changing island weather-and often make it the central theme or a brooding background in my poetry. I love the cyclical process and as a spiritual, though not a conventionally religious person, i applaud the intimation of regeneration- a shaft of light touching the cold stone of oblivion. Even at the dead heart of winter there is hope of transformation.
Acutely observing everything today
With the stretching light, suddenly more alive
Striding through the Peakland farms with purpose
On this February day of fire and ice.
There is something of the old longing, yearning
For renewal, the first soft winds of spring,
To the crackle of dried brambles burning,
A dream that slowly consumes itself.
Was there some other timeless space
Where I might drift and find myself?
To my left the sparkle of hoar frost
Shimmering crystals cling to clodded sods
As a cloud of mist slowly dissipates,
To a farmer picking out pipes and bones.
There is something shifting in the stasis,
Some subtle change that trips my consciousness,
To something, floating, vibrant, tremulous,
The intimation of new urgency
This festival of light; old Candlemass.