Mind Fill (For Lynda Robson) Poem by Ian Bowen

When he was less than
the fingers of both hands,
memories of the farm;
grunted, clucked and bleated
in his apple-town ears.
Life slid at the speed
of visiting seasons,
and the dust of harvest grasses
floated like tiny, golden, flying fairies.
Then Spring sprang,
in the shape of the 'young white dancing'
on those 'new life' mountains
that dived to as far as a Swansea sea.
Summer dragged its lethargic feet
as far as the pens of pigs
and wallowed in a hog of haze.
The hard footsteps of winter,
knocked on floors of dark mornings
as chickens called for sprinkled corn.
A nude Autumn, allowed the sighting
of the broken-twig homes of calling crows...

as life filled his mind
with images of Fern Hill,
and later... the ability to reflect
in the positioned words of a genius