The Rain: streaming with direct argument through the air. The Sea: calm as children swam with their dogs at the whispering surface. The First Doubts: felt by those who stood by the rivers as they rose. Torrents: under arches, creaking bridges. The Water: rising, day on day – perhaps we had hit a galactic cloud of ice, which melted through the plum atmosphere. But it was so relaxing that the scientists lay down, or swam with their dogs in the lakes which were overcoming the cities on the plain. God: when contacted, denied involvement. The Priests: unworried, they lay in the belfry and felt the water lap their ears. The Spire: up out of the water, the church became a rock in the sea, which pierced the bottom of a boat that had been constructed for fun. The Boat Crew: relaxed. Went into the water slowly and quietly. Soon: the earth was blue and yet the rain didn’t stop. It poured between the stars in an unknown mechanism, doubtless to do with the meanings imbued in some partial beginning when pure energy thundered out of the centre of things. Soon: water filled the galaxy, and then the spaces between the galaxies. Underwater Stars: booming in the depths. Comets: moving very slowly, leaving trails in the intergalactic ice as it spread in the manner of mould with a dispersed origin. The Water: perhaps streaming from black holes, connected to another, drowning, diluvian plane. The Water: glub. The Water: glub. The Water: glub.
The barn owl is an ancient vector on the post in the blue silence It slips a million years between thin bones and structures of feather – A predator engineered by galaxy – Mudflats in the estuary pop and click with the worms’ horrific cryptography – Oystercatchers crack it as they pick scraps from the crab corpse in the pool then are torn from the sand by desire. Tunnelling into the cliff, the sea pops and clicks rocks against recorded time and daylight in the tunnel sketches webs on the vault-line of the limestone – Striations of land are sunk into the coast the marsh holds a sheep skeleton – The lady joins the doomed Gawain, topless and expecting courtesy
We are ancient predators – our eyes scan the front and the field shifts and pulls towards us – folds in the land are held straight by our mind whose horizon is fixed even while the body scrambles – The lord of the castle leaves Gawain to trek a last trek to the the rock chapel in the green-black velvet valley – cold in the morning – the horse shifts and breathes under them – the image of a single carrot impressed into the horse-mind network Mist lifts off the sweating body of the hills – Sleep is slight like ice on a puddle – We could not climb the stair quietly the wood would crack and souls stir stilling erratic movement of the eyeball
We remember dreams – of snakes coiled around us, writhing on the bed – of a silent goblin, watching, still, until he fades – and tales of animals – bouldering to find an adder nest suddenly, and the shock was great – a spider hides in the folds of a bag. The engine pops and clicks as it cools as the road humps over the land holding us fixed, as the earth moves. Swallows pop and click on the wires – Geiger counters of each other’s name. We are naked under these clothes – she said it herself and I can feel it – Scars on the land of the robes – A bird warbles and beeps frantically – then the fell runner whose hooves scar the peat in flight from the lord’s hunt
Swallows struck from silver hang in the sky like the bright moon beyond three embracing drops in glass and the black slate of the belfry – the university where someone sits in the library, feet up, on the phone – and thrift clings to the rock pool – small purple flowers held for convolutional identification – I hold the hand of an ancient woman to help her through a gate and see the old post office by the field. I hold a red layered geode someone had cracked on the beach I hold a stone like a bearded capuchin and bring it down to pop and click rocks on the hard-edged beach
My friends, there is no end though the sun will soon expand and the earth be smoothed by the weight of the turbulent sea There is no end – the habitable zone will slip beyond us as we cling by thrift, like thrift to the rock – We might build a planet engine to shift whole seas to tack our orbit or we might not – it changes nothing You want to preserve us forever but we are preserved – I declare it We are archived of ourselves of this moment – I archive us. Now tie these greens around your waist and watch the grass move under cows who carefully avoid (though they kiss) the bluebells