THERE IS
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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