Bluebells

and Fly over the Eamont again.

Into What Pattern... Kathleen Raine

Into what pattern, into what music have the spheres whirled us,
Of travelling light upon spindles of the stars wound us,
The great winds upon the hills and in hollows swirled us,
into what currents the hollow waves and crested waters,
Molten veins of ancestral rocks wrought us
In the caves, in the graves entangled the deep roots of us,
Into what vesture of memories earth layer upon layer enswathed us
Of the ever-changing faces and phases
Of the moon to be born, reborn, upborn, of sun-spun days
Our arrivals assigned us, our times and our places
Sanctuaries for all love's meetings and partings, departings
Healings and woundings and weepings and transfigurations?