Poetry

ON THE DOWNS

by Lawrence Rich

Back on its springy turf again
the surge of downland breaks at my feet
a green tsunami whose swoop and swell
rolls from the ridge I trod as a boy
having cycled that way one mad afternoon
to find and adore the unseen force
I had surely felt near the beech-wood copse
this side of Windmill Hill.

Must be five thousand year since the god arrived
a Neolithic knock-on from the fertile crescent
promoter of tree clearance
agriculture, livestock
the building of hill-fort
henge and tomb and of death
as a door to life after death
grave-goods easing the way.

His message today is delivered
by a godlet.  Smallest of falcons
yet efficiently sleek, he streaks like a dart
from the grass at my feet then up
for the fluttering song-drenched blue
scattering skylarks, their lives on the line.
And the merlin, a lark now secure in his talons,
is as good as a god for me.

 Copyright Lawrence Rich 2009