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December 05, 2010
wild chords of geese
somewhere mellow between
the end of the overblown blackberries
the start of the harvested leaves
on clinical sills
hint at bleached sun
in the hedges
thistle winds to come
to eyes trained on histrionic heights
of Welsh adolescence,
this stubborn serenity,
these mediaeval colours
a great grey blanket billowing unbroken from the North Pole
wild chords of geese in its folds;
the flinty, dependable noun
behind mists of adjectives
Note: these pink-footed geese come over the North Pole to our low lying coasts every October to find a mild winter and fill Norfolk skies with their wild music. I've been trying to make a decent sound recording free of wind and other ambience (always some farm machinery growelling and peeping) for over ten years. Might have managed it yesterday in the still snowscape. Got an incidental visual record almost by accident. I wonder what they're saying to each other. 'Wild goose chase, this. It's like the bloody arctic. We might as well have stayed there. That poet's recording us miles from home in the dusk again. Nutter.'