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As I slept last night the wind backed round And drove as ragged flocks of sodden sheep The grey columnar walls of leaden cloud And flung them all along the hills of Fife. Now the Linn is shouting as if filled With belling stags, gorged with life. By degrees the foxgloves lift their heads And urgent fledglings with drowned moths are fed. I'd resolved to keep you in my sight, But distraction took me - a mound Of moss that for a fairy king might Be a throne. I drifted in a haze Of light, back to the house to learn that In the night you had moved your shining tents elsewhere. Dhruvasimha lives in Whitby and leads a study group at the Leeds Buddhist Centre [contents] [top] [print] | ||||