Today's poem is by Rebecca Dunham
Alfoxden: Dorothy Wordsworth, 1798
Always we walk to, a great part of the way.
Wm. & I, hilltop to brook, & the sea
a morning basin full to its very lip. Turnip
greens lively & rough. The world in size
is but a tiny room whose edges we must
walk: Quantock, Holford, Stowey, Kilve.
Deft as I handle slips of plant, I find
of a sudden within me the gift to cluster
my thoughts until they twist, bristled
serpents dense as furze or hazel abloom,
midge-cloud in sunlight, or the oak
thick-feathered by scarlet-lit moss. Half-
dead, the sheep bell beds down for night
in a furrowed coombe's long hollow.
My journal pleases Wm., each day's entry
a small bud & I am glad. Its deckle-
edged leaves seem to me, at times, almost
to rattle between my pinced fingers like
the packets I empty over earth's harrowed
mound. My seed-black script smatters
the page. Leech-gatherer & night-piece
alike fly loose, words lifted & blown
by a wind, to fertilize some other's ground.
Copyright © 2009 Rebecca Dunham All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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