When Hopkins gloried in dappled things He must have thought of angels’ wings Of gossamer and cuckoo spit Of candles flicker-lit
As Palmer did In silent chapels In Kentish fields
Of darkening woods where sunlight hides In sheepland pastures
On downy hills
In buttercup meadows Where linnet trills
The silent raptures Of sunset light On autumn trees Where swoops the kite
And evening captures The thickening shadows
The cooling breeze Midst fields of golden rippling corn That now adorn the rustic scene
Such glory in apple blossom seen
As they, with Blake, Held in their hand Those grains of sand To wonder more How Nature’s glory Explains itself In storm And stillness In calm and frenzy Light and shade In setting sun And mounting moon
The evening’s glaze In bounteous harvest Nature’s cavalcade
I need to listen to that hidden sound of silence the murmur that thrills lost souls and as it swells reverberates among those distant heathered hills
I crave to hear it burgeon on that lonely land that misty moor of distant memory where dwell lush images of the Green Hill of the High Cliff the Cass Rock the Apple Garth and the bubbling burbling beck its red waters blooding its banks with reminders of its ferrous track
A distant memory rising from deep beneath those ancient northern hills born of Nature’s cycle birthed in ironstone and nurtured in those recurring dreams of my youth and the lasting images of my old age
In the summer evening’s stillness under the calm of the the sickle moon Evensong is softly sung. The gentle breeze catching only the occasional sigh On the evening’s air. The hope of summer rests in the gently rolling hills, the golden sheaves of garnered corn and the lushness of the blackberries in the hedgerows. With solemn seriousness Nature sighs and as the evening cools the silence of the scene is pierced occasionally by God’s evening hymn.
Let me go Let me run in the early dew To brush against the laurel’s leaves Tread the cool earth’s cushion And linger in the dampness of the silent wood.
Before the cooing of the collared bird, The bite of the new day’s busy-ness, Its threats and promises, Breaks into the stillness of my morning world And ruptures this mood of mystery Of thrill and almost menace, Leaving me to face another day of reality One more acceptance of the wrenching truth.