A November poem for today –
when the days are growing darker, a poem which tells of a moment of brilliant light.
When the sun is low, and when dawn and dusk happen at times when we are more likely to be about, we can sometimes catch a moment of pure glory, like this one.
The sun hit an angle which not only illuminated the spidersilk that covered everything, but transformed it – the silk acting like a prism and splitting the light into its rainbow colours.
Everything in that plain muddy field shook with all the colours, all the light.
Even an unremarkable morning stroll can leave you breathless with wonder.
Even in dark times, we can look for the light.
November – early morning –
clear sky – rising mist.
You note details, how it was
when it began,
when the spidersilk hummed with light,
the way a wire hums in the wind.
Just one or two threads at first,
then each blade of grass, each reed,
joined in strands of brilliant light.
Silver shakes and splits
into red, blue, violet. Threads
shuddering into colours of such
brightness, such purity.
Even backs of crows
are iridescent white,
and heavy water-drops
that bend the reeds
flash indigo and orange
for a moment –
a long held breath
Then the silk turns silver again,
and then it vanishes.
Brown mud. Green grass.
A field where cows swish slow tails,
and the curlew and the heron
walk through reeds.
With thanks to Matthew Ling and Peter Skevington for the use of their beautiful photographs.