Bill Peascod Poem by john appleby

Working the green seam under a louring sky.
Cobs of earth and shards of stone tossed into the steel void
echoes through skylark spaces. Eagle Crag; its peeling face a drum
played by tired fingers.
Hanging from vapors, his swaddled frame bends the wind, slowly
unwrapping the pallid core of the crag, he moves through countries
of stone, reaching deep into raven spaces.
All feathers, white fur, brittle skin.

A rock arcs to earth, exploding on the scree before rolling through
the bilberry door.
Muffled voices rant in corners; each player fixed in separate
hemispheres, connected to the spinning orb by instinct and fear.

William of the orange fleece; mining rock, painting stone.
Caught on the barbs of imagination; an image of rapture fleshed
and embossed on his own fire washed canvas.

July 1998