All night long the nightingale
calls through this turning garden in the stars.
Sweet in the flowering thyme he kneels
dim in the fields of evening;
till he and the peaceful goats are ready
to go and lie down.
Today I felt the urge to post something from an earlier period of my life - in this case, my late twenties, during my self-sufficiency-community-back to the land phase. As I mentioned, some 15 years ago I had a moment of annoyance with my poetic production and trashed everything I’d written, on the basis that whatever I could remember might have some merit, whilst the rubbish would sink without trace. This is one of the survivors in memory. I guess some people would consider it too slight to be dignified by the grand epithet poem, but I still like it - perhaps just out of nostalgia for a faraway time.
