Poems by Daffni Percival
Elms are flared with yellow;
Oaks turn bronze;
Mist swirls along the furrow;
The year grows old.
And the beech trees stand
Root-deep in discarded gold.
I, squirrel-like secrete
About the hollows of my mind
To hang upon the world
At other times
When all within
Is uniformly grey,
When poetry fades
Faces the light of day.
But words cannot retain
Only their ghosts remain,
Reminding me how
Through the autumn mist
I prayed involuntary prayers
To gods that did not exist.
As a pale sun glimmers and water shimmers
Beneath a grey damp dawn
A gaggle of geese from over the lee
Come single file to the bourne.
In the deep dark pool where the water is cool
Dipping their breasts they wade;
Then they shake their quills and the water spills
On the grass in a silver cascade.
The first sun flings on their flying wings
A glancing golden stain
As the flock takes flight in the morning light,
Then wheels to home again.
All day, all day, in their vagrant way
The vagrant flock will roam,
Till the darkling air and the evening prayer
Of the song thrush are calling them home.
The gander surveys, by the last faint rays
Of the sun, the fading fields
and the foxy hill, and he’ll listen still
When soon to sleep he yields.
He holds the sky in the gleam of his eye,
To the last of the sun he calls.
An echo replies as the daylight dies
And night’s mantle falls.
When shadows creep and the grey geese sleep
Under the hawthorn hedge
He stands alone, an image of stone
At the whispering water’s edge.
The Dog’s Lament
The boss has gone; I’m a lonely dog;
I haven’t the spirit to prowl;
I look at my biscuits with jaundiced eye
And I sit by the door and howl.
I am the back-seat-driver,
I should be there in the van;
It’s me that keeps an eye on the road,
Not a damned computer plan.
The rain is dripping, the sheep are wet;
I can’t be bothered to bark;
I don’t give a damn what the ducks are doing;
My world has gone woefully dark.
Wispy, promiscuous bitch,
Is making eyes at the sitter;
But I am a serious collie dog
And I say it doesn’t befit her.
I know that we’ve been dumped
While the boss goes off on the spree.
It ain’t right; she loses all sorts of things,
But never drives off without me.
Sun On The Hill
“Sun will come on a hill”.
So put on your wellies,
get out in the rain,
and let life’s weather
send what it will.
Though the landscape
is nought but storm-tossed sky
with never a sign of a hill,
as the storm exults,
and the clouds unfold.
The hills will reveal
themselves, lurking still
and somewhere there
on a distant hill
a velvet patch of gold.
Daw haul ar fryn is pronounced dow hile ar vrin
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