John Buckler is an artist

Clearing

In the clearing,
the hill wears a quilted bodice of
rock roses embroidering the tough grass.
Limestone studs stretch the ground’s skin ;
muscles, knuckles and knees,
pocked by black lichen’d pools,
scoured by cold sleet,
colonised by bright orange
and cushioned pinheads of moss.

As if fresh from the bonfire’s ash,
rain green sheaves of curved, flat-bladed grass,
plume the clearing’s rim,
usher away the silent crowds
of white bramble buds,
pregnant for autumn,
caped with layered leaves of nightshade and woodywine.

A wild white rose cranes to see over them,
arching stems wisped by the breath of birds’ wings,
its mint-stained new blooms the colour of cold cream,

whose opaque jar is the summer air.

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