Archive Mined and Freshly Spun

            REBECCA JAYNE

(2 yrs of age)

Observing the precarious

existence

of household plants

swiftly followed by

the sideways glance

at buttered scones –

aroused by appetites

of taste and touch and sight –

she reaches out to clutch

the flower, trembling

with anticipation of the feel

or knowledge of restraining hands.

Seeking adulation

with every tentative step –

the pleasure of each stretch

a fleeting reminiscence

of the unencumbered state

of birthday grace.

                       Malcolm Evison

 FELL FALL

Mist mellows, swathes

the bracken waste, moves

mountains and retrieves

a shadow of their former state –

a throbbing sigh, veiled certainty.

Prey to this cold allure

the crag-fast fear subsides:

tamed by its achromatic spell

the enthralled mind contrives

a vision which can penetrate

the substance of the rock. Unlock

the memories of strange

remoter climes; time lost

in mystery, fusing the venerated

past with present vulnerability.

Mist swathes the bracken waste,

tastes history, mellows and moves

a range of fells, slowly retrieves

a shadow of their former state –

veiled certainty, a subdued sigh.

                           Malcolm Evison

SEPTEMBER SONG

Time past time yet to be

Discovered. I gaze out

Across the hills, the scene changes

Image merges into image. The clouds devour

The openness; still it is growing

No-one can capture the full and flowing

Taste of life, no-one has time enough

To even care. We do

What we must do to pass the time,

But why not more of it – just take it

Let it grow from us.

The sky grows, my eyes close

Once again. Trees and open fields,

Wind tears them all –

This one this all is mine

I breathe, I grow.

                      Malcolm Evison

RE-AFFIRMED

mid-afternoon -

the cloud breaks gently

to reveal

a semblance of

the sun’s real glare

I see

my first full shadow

of the day

and now I  surely know

that I am here

re-affirmed

                          Malcolm Evison

                           5 July 2008

This poem is a spontaneous sequel to GREY DAY published on Mal's Factory earlier this afternoon.

THE GIFT

Today is all my bygone days

this evening is the dawn

                     of my eternity,

of loving faces, smiling eyes

of touching fingers

sliding carefree

                      down the mossy slopes

of always never.

Only then, will I see you smile,

only now, do I feel your tears

gliding down

                    the deities

and landing on their feet

of clay.

Today is mis-spent hours

wasting into

                  the gilt and glory

that was youth –

no symbols,

                  only words,

softly spoken by the pollen

freely given to the bee.

And I receive them

gratefully –

feeling the touch of your fingers

through my shroud

of fear.

                          Malcolm Evison

                           1969

*********************************

another poem, LISTENING TO STOCKHAUSEN ... , has been posted on 'Mal's Factory'