there is there is

a whisper spreads to a field
of heads of wheatgrass

a rumour hides in the bursts
of reeds and rushes

it is it is

the bracken confers, the thistles nod

a huddle of beeches at the side
come to a view, spectators both and judges
note the reports, accept the proposition

it is

almost not there, I skirt a burial mound
to enter a room of light what is it what is it

a chamber of the mind and sky and field

an in and out, a more-than-life, an instant
caught and gone, and all-at-once confirmed
as a meadow pipit starts from beneath my feet

there is

there is

there is

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