The Eye
The eye looks inward to geology, unfolding millenia,
looks upward to the present, looks askance at lies
and propositions, secret plans, small conspiracies,
The eye looks outward where the wraith of her body
lies, a ghostly mist across the green.
It sees the daily traffic of each Arcadian day:
youngsters learning the art of tightrope walking,
a teenage actor rehearses in the woodland,
a couple sit knee to knee on the bank,
a boy sleeps head on rucksack, hoodie up,
a young girl plays her violin,
a group congregates at the substation,
smoke weed and eat their lunch,
grandmothers with children, men with dogs,
the cars and vans, cyclists and buses,
the lover’s tryst beneath the ash tree on the verge.
The eye’s imagination unearths the significance
of place, the mythologies and mysteries, legends and tales.
All the king’s horses once exercised here,
a gracious display of shining brass, red battledress,
whites and greys, blacks and tans, purebred and shire,
Sussex Punch and Sussex ox, trooping down
the verge. Crinolined ladies with twirling parasols,
arm in arm enjoy the view over the town towards
the sea, the windows of the distant, tiny houses
reflecting golden sun. Nearby, the field patterns
of ancient farmland in the wide valley’s swoop,
the glitter of a flock of seabirds traversing the sky.
Look out for more of Aldilà tomorrow…
