Easter Sunday poem composed at lhs1 by DE Siddon
Blood of the slaughtered lamb shed , a gorse thorn crown upon the head
Tunnel s more the peat black earth, ere comes the time of nacent birth.
Poem from DE Siddon after live painting at Whitepeak House Gallery 12.2.16. Upon and idle hour as foot and minddid ramble free, on some singular aspectmy eye did fall.
Ancient spoil deep delved and set in place,my way did bound by dry stone wall.
Familiar the bands of limestone grey our native bone our sacred dirt.
What jewelled obsidian lustous lay, the razors edge of parkland chert.
No flint so hard but you would grind, nor hold edge so keen as thou could’st keep.
For shame here stacked by patient hand, a barrier to errant sheep.