Mid-morning Nidd paths, flora-fringed,
Spring-fresh, by blossom blessed, confetti-strewn.
My strides beside the river seem to partner
Rhythms of the stream, flow together, flourish?
Only seem, these harmonies apparent hide illusions,
Nourish them. This no nuptial bliss but irony,
A celebration of our true divorce from nature,
Separation’s kiss. Magnolia’s short-lived
Glory now has gone, April’s reputed showers
Have hardly come, our faithless melodies
Play out of tune. The goldcrest sings; we cry
In solitude inside. While winding round
The wooded banks I wend my footsteps by
Wild scented garlic, ranks of arum lilies in
Profusion. Nature with herself confides:
Scents of rose and hyacinth dance in the air,
From throats of songbirds issue verse,
Come gifts of music, trees converse, their
Branches gesture in the sky as orange-tips
To bees reply, all unperturbed, commissioned
By strange silence, wisdom undisturbed by
Our confusion. Suddenly, without us,
Vital nature is alive. Her pride and
Joy, somehow, compounds our disillusion.
Refer to: Apr 2020 – Sermons in stones
No rough winds of May this year either! Strong images and satisfying rhymes popping up irregularly. But I didn’t understand the irony in the poet’s response to nature.
A lovely evocation of the season. Quite like Hopkins in places.
O dear – failure! The main point I’m trying to make is that all seems lovely on the surface but it’s a misleading illusion as humankind is becoming more and more separated from the rest of nature, which celebrates the divorce!
OK but we don’t see that the poet is himself alienated. And why is nature celebrating the divorce?
Because it doesn’t want us humans anymore – we just cause trouble! She feels she’s better off without us! The runner feels connected but on one level it’s an illusion! Yes, maybe the poet in the runner is still connected. Perhaps through art we can re-engage !
There is no doubt that humankind has severely abused the natural world yet without us who could write such lovely poetry extolling its beauty?
Ah! Who knows what poetry the brooks murmur and the grasses whisper?