The Goddess is a Machine

The Goddess is a machine.
She has parts and a purpose,
Inputs and outputs.
She's self-repairing,
Self-depreciating,
Self aware.

Multiple parts, million, billions,

Organised into components.
Each with purpose and proprietary,
Separate, self-governing,
Yet contributing to a grand symphony.

We, in every sense,
Are active components.
Prone to error,
Tending to malfeasance,
But integral to the machine.

She does not forgive,
But she does subsume,
Does not replace,
When she can evolve.
And if a part wears out,
She does not mourn.
She cannot.

Object of saintly revulsion,

Subject to degradation,
No vengeful act does she countenance.
No targeted assassination
Of moneyed grabber.
But pity the poor pitman
Who strays from the path

You cannot see her,

Not on this world,
But you might glimpse her beauty
In the fox's wry glare,
Measure her majesty
In the glossy entrails
Of his latest kill,
Or catch her scent
In his leavings.

So rise from your slumber,

Step lightly on the stony path,
Leading to a lonely beach,
And watch her her rise,
Foam-dipped,
On a morning tide.

A Village Man

A cross, half-formed, angles out
From the slope of Gutter Tor.
Carved in-situ, once upright,
Now it leans, pointing North West,
Partially hidden from the sun.
Green moss, laid thick,
Despoils the surface,
Already cracked and scarred
From biting wind and rain.
Slowly, in a time
measured by the season
The Goddess reclaims the stone
Laying it gently down
Back into the waiting earth.

There was a village man,
We'll call him Gabriel.
He was fully-formed,
Steeped and matured
On the slope of Knowle Down.
Weather-wise, moss-free,
He knew which way to turn
Against a biting easterly.
All the tricks, the little secrets,
She'd hidden away,
He'd prise out with a crafty gleam,
Hoping she wouldn't see.
And maybe she turned a blind eye,
But in return, and slowly,
A time measured by the season,
She reclaimed him,
Laying him gently down
Back into the loving earth.

Rain Clearing

Late in the year, with Autumn tipping,
the air bitter and stems brittle, the sea lawn
has lost its lustre, colour shifting from a
fine whisping green to a sprightly golden.
Late rains, coming down in a glass rush

have turned tracks to streams. Following
the Plym to its source, deep in the valley,
passed Evil Combe, I'm thwarted, the rain
hastening the flow to block the ford across
a bold tributary. Turning then, to pass along

the wrong valley, I feel hemmed in; the rain
imposing, steep slopes pressing down. An
oppressive landscape asserting it's will,
forcing me to use a fleeting, transient path,
presenting instability to hesitant footfalls.

Passing through in time, the valley opens

out onto a boggy catchment, source of the
tributary but as impassable as the blocked
ford. Resigned, I set off up the slope, picking
a sensible direction, making reactionary

turns to trace an alignment to the deserted

tin mine and the passing track. Disconsolate,
beaten, I descend, taking the straight route
from Eylsebarrow to the Scout Hut. The track
that's a stream, glass rush running in torrents,

forcing me back and forth, avoiding flows and

pools. In stages, through water sheets, the
landscape peaks through, tempting but not
delivering until finally the rain peters, and the
air clears to a pinpoint sharpness. Across to

Sharpitor and the lowlands beyond, cloud
tendrils rise up, bright against the dooming
glare of distant downpours. I see moor and
pasture, chaos and order, shining bright
together, golden and green. Glowing. Glowing.

Black Crow

Black crow balances
On a gusting breeze
Floating on an air wave.
Feathers, controlling ailerons
Lift and rise
Tendrils rippling
To keep the bird aloft.

An innate symmetry.

Black crow and his environs.

Damaging gusts

Attempting disorder,
Threatening disaster,
But with a mere wing dip,
An unconscious feather ripple,
Black crow rights itself
Restoring the natural balance.

To continue the search

For those not so lucky.

October

Tousle-haired harbinger

Teasing the last remnants

From an Indian Summer.

Next years buds

Vestiges of growth

Belie the destitution

That November will bring.

Beyond, under frigid skies,

The wrecking months.

Skirling winds

Bitter, twisted tendrils

Seep through gaps

Chilling bones, until,

Desolate and alone,

They whither and snap

Like dry grass

Blast-stripped, brown

With cold and decay.

Amidst the carnage,

She walks.
Barefoot.

Autumn

In a chemical reaction

of chlorophyll degradation,
The Goddess tires of growth,
adding yellow and ochre
to smother her pallet of greens.

Oak and beech,
Ash and birch,
the foliage loses its tinge,
taking on the stark flash
of Autumn

A transition of life-giving leaves,

to a morbid crunch
and a display of unintended colour.
Yellow to reds and browns,
lacking real purpose,
creating a psychotic vista.

A promise of death,

the spectre of decay,
withdrawing the living sap;
protection against
the harsh embrace
of Winter.

In Between

Her heart lies amongst the greenery
pulsing through the filaments.

Shoots pushing up through rotting mulch

sap bursting in a lithe climb to the light.

Life through death.

A partial demise

hence to a renewal.

And in between,

during the icy clutches of Winter,
a dormant phase.

Yet she remains,

even in those mortal depths,
poised for rebirth.

Glimpsed in the seasonal berries,

crimson red,
filled with her life-blood.

Or on the Robin's breast,

while he sings of her coming.