The English countryside

A sensual being
rides the mist over heather
with purple days and pollen nights
the skies, transformed
a mix of hell weeping green ghosts
night owls and bat seeks
unshaven angles of mountainsides
hills and meadows divided high
cut with walls
appals my mind
for this, the English countryside.
I hover over a canvass
with oil dripping from trays
my hand is a spectrum tattooed
with colours of the evening
serene, the scene
I try to cultivate like the plants
laugh, like Sylvia Plath could not
who are you black shoe,
I am but the eye
for this, the English countryside.
Rub my knuckles in the dirt
and wash upon the white
mix the trouble, of the skies setting
the oils and water from natural springs
birds and underground voles
moles, squeaks and sings
they must of course bow
with baton in paws
and confide
to the orchestra
for this, the English countryside.
I fell asleep on downs of spring like
encased in leaves all brown and hue
inspired by autumn,spring and summer
winter dreams the gales blew through
yet still I painted this mercy of trouble
to mount one day in a hall applied
be framed for all to look upon
this, for all to stand in awe
our grandeur
English
countryside.