The land was turned out
by hand and then wind.
Now the earth’s offcuts
rest in endless piles
under the sun, and us.
What would the old soul
who lamented stone’s
upheaval, think now
as we walk, silent
with awe at our world
The land was turned out
by hand and then wind.
Now the earth’s offcuts
rest in endless piles
under the sun, and us.
What would the old soul
who lamented stone’s
upheaval, think now
as we walk, silent
with awe at our world
Brambles cut with snow
are the earth’s bronze crown
of thorns in the sun
This sun – glancing the snow
I walk under – and my ears
tilt to the birdsong now –
this spring beginning with snow
A fox-path diverts from mine
to the deeper more humanless parts
And cars through the sleet
as my ears grow colder
the houses are there, dusted
with drybrush grey-white crusts
plucked from a model of
the apocalypse – each is empty
Others walk by to arrive somewhere
as I stand and look
at the fallen tree, sliced with a gap.
A half frozen lake waits
for me, and duck ripples
there is no escape, but this
is an escape, the frozen sheet
the tree’s twisting bark
the wood-pigeon’s cold thrum
May this be preserved
this tas of remnants
this precision of life
which clings to us like a scar.
‘Do not go in the water’
it would be piercing quiet
Then dull, but I do not need telling
twice – to not miss
by brash action – a moment.
Behind the patient moon,
a meteor – as I walk home
watch my head coalesce
into the white materia – holy.