Poetry

Granite snowman
growanek growth of gold
lichen licks your old head - 
your grass-skirt and blessed
pointed head to the sky.

Sweet birds of summer
come to swoop by you,
fly-past swiftly African aircraft
swallowing midges a-wing -
sing simple songs flung
over dungmellow flatfields -
summer a-come.

Licking breezes cool
wrapped around old stone spool,
then a stillness
in the cloverdotted pathcrossed field,
Stone Holy to Ancients
with Oceanic view,
glimpse the stars
Look!  Old is new