Webcharms

French grey rain dimpling olive puddles The anemones and dandelions stay shut on the hedge banks A rook stationed itself on the wire by the top of the telegraph pole while the car carried the slow sound of viols along the wet lane

The Third Branch, the chequered horse at the stream under the skylark overlayered landscape of dens and denes, gills and gullies woods, copses, shaws and spinneys.

Brazen celandines pinned on the grass where fire cows ruminate on cud dreaming of leaf-rimmed pools pierced by fallen timber. While the cantilevered branch splashes the blue-brown water the weblogs interweave, one modifying another

A prophet may come in the new Dark Ages From the sea-green forest where the leaf waves crash in the branches From the glaucous sea, ribbed and dangerous

Ivory sheep in the morning sun crowded the summit of the cold brown wold A man bent over a spade, digging earth from a dry bank dumbfounded by phenomenology dreaming of sultana pudding

Cold dyes leaves with a red hand shades of crimson, vermilion, oxblood and ruby purple wrestles green incarnadine cold

I think I have nothing to say, so I say nothing Lines are the names of cryptic species in imaginary taxonomies ornus, or as the pinax more peculiarly, fraxinus bubula

Broken bricks to make a road Broken years to make a life Broken winter to make a spring

Camellias flower after frost Souvenir de Bahuaud Litou who was this remembered rose tendre, tardif, imbriquée Thorn wands haunted by rose-breasted batchelor chaffinches But the van still hit the dove, grey feathers in a mirror

The alders are cloaked in thin russet veils, catkin coats against the cold the east wind puts knives between the sun and earth some hold out their hands, palm up, wide ides in meetings