Ghosting the hidden lanes to Chediston
we greet a pheasant with two wayside hares
as if the people in our solitude
were passing for the creatures of the field.
The day has become lusty green in May
across the sleeping open fields until
the narrowing of the way full of twists
and whirling pinions, darkly hovering.
Glinting waters beguile in miniature
while their rippling shores sing a bigger song
but the same fish suspended silently
wait upon the wind and the falling of the fly.
Behind the five barred gate the lakes sleep on
the latent guardians of those earlier
opulent days swollen with such moment
and the perception of old memories.
Yet nestling in the rosy clematis
lies the old hut we call the hermitage
its floral entrance full of promises
the willow lakes, the silent sentinel.
23rd May 2003