Along A Weir-side Way

How slow the snake uncoiling
On weird cerebral lawns,
Grips those moles now grieving
And how the wagtail mourns;
Feet of gruesome coots are blue,
Uprooted and reborn.

His weir-side way gave us today –
Barbed our briar impressions;
His river’s course, unnatural,
Fallacies abounding wherever
Escapes briefly water or weather.
Too late the discourse and the dawn;
Too late misplaced starlings imitate
A feather’s fate forlorn.

A garden in his stomach then,
His bowels behold the bones:
Where self-conceited owls will plot
Their death, I walk the weir alone.

Stateless

First, a state did crack me,
And then the devil
Indivisibly did hack me;
In a dream, I hanged on a heath,
Poured my endless heart out
To thunderous friends
Suspended underneath
Where secrets will not keep,
For you cannot hold a pen
When peaty fens grip
With a potash-painted
Serrated beak.

In the ever-aching distance,
A final burning spire;
Nothing I can do.
Sky-ribs pierced,
Limbic cadences and seditions,
Marshland feet bound
With mallow and rue.

I soaked my face in the lake of the deaths –
I cannot say what I witnessed; instead,
A frozen rotten seagull wing,
A bald and bloodless silver moon.

I heard there is a market
Every weekday afternoon,
Where nature abundantly flows
In shapes of latent marrow
And ample, gravid legumes.

Alaska

A kettle appeared in my hand
From nowhere,
And the entire land
Became orange and broken.
I remember you,
Spearer of white salmon,
Your heretical parents –
Those academic navel gazers –
Abandoned you to delusions
And a gnawing consumption.
No wonder you moved to Alaska,
This spoke nothing of you,
Glued to the hues
Of forest and tundra,
Of numberless lumbering
Grizzlies, lunar phases
Unencumbered behind secret
Nictitating eyelids,
And everything of them,
His head between a women’s legs
And hers wedged into an oven.
Sometimes, sub-arctic skies
Seemed so vast, so all-consuming,
Your bruised soul could slip
Off a precipice and
Into the basalt rubble,
And that, of course,
In time,
Is exactly what you did,
Standing in those atrocious
Foaming rapids, in galoshes,
The rod appeared in your hand
Just like this whistling kettle,
Akin to the miraculous
Echoes of odourless thought,
And in that moment perhaps
You felt alive so clearly,
So attuned to the hubris
That all of a sudden
You died, too.
You forgot how to swim
As your limbs metamorphically
Merged with sockeyes
And piny yellowfin.
The rifle appeared in your hand,
Also from nowhere.

No poet saved the world
Through writing alone,
Yet they should not have
Ever suggested
That you could.

Faltreir

I heard all you said,
About how I expend my time
At nowhere’s edge,
Ignoring the living,
Courting the dead.

Last steadfast leaves of autumn
With their crow’s nest views
And hardy crow’s feet skin,
Swiped like diseased teeth
And tossed into a low
Evergreen sedge.

That storm stole a blackbird’s nest
With one disarming vortex,
Firstly from the north and then
Again from the west.
It was an intricate weft of delicate twigs;
I wondered, how do those diligent,
Hard-working, indigent parents
Rebuild with such artifice,
How do those innocents
Start over in epicentres of
Such windy maleficence,
Pick up the twigs,
Pick up the nest?
And where will the child
Now emerge and
In its emergence
Break out from conformity
And finally live, and erupt
In the fires of self-fulfilment,
Above the bracken and the copse,
If a storm allows for this.

Butterfly In November

The guardian on duty
Fell into eternal sleep,
So he could not tell me
That ivy ceased crawling,
A stranglehold wore off,
That devious armies retreated,
Helmets for a broth;
Ice caps melted;
Oaks no longer spalted,
A sward in sunlight
For a short time
Stirred the early grass.

A butterfly in November
Landed on my finger,
And then a dainty
Ladybird; and I knew
In my thorn-protected heart
How planets and a moon
Might finally restart.

I Give The World Back To Nature

I give the world back to nature;
A waxwing with a breast of songs
Calibrates my credences,
Re-writes years of wrongs.

If gnostics, also stoics feared,
Divined this branch’s end,
What other laws acceded to
Make tools for our amends.

I give the world back to nature:
Conjugate, Platonic fox –
Milk may curdle, wood will rot –
As brambles smother brickwork clocks.

All my beliefs retreat in nature,
Moorland horses, forest boars;
Language seldom for relief
Nor remedies the source.

I watched a guru wash a lake,
His oily face was aged and cragged;
Flowing ocean, growing marsh,
Have me slowly backwards dragged.


Origins

A basking shark
Swallowed whole
A water horse;
When its stomata exploded
Time fell out, followed
By remains of fish
And juvenile squid,
Car tyre parts,
A severed head,
A battery charge,
Semi-digested,
Later became
Inspiration
For several
Famous inventors
And letters for my name
Amid fingertips
And foam fermented,
Bones in oaths
Cemented
Not far from a coastal path.

A dead shepherdess
Squatting upright in a nest
Portended through
An eyeless dream
That basking shark’s unrest.

I came to this coast
Two years ago,
Not for the amusements
Or the beachy sands,
But to search
Amid the dune grasses
And mollusc graves
And collect,
Searching
And foraging
If nothing more
Than to forget.

Rain on red sand
Ignites all the land.
I have a false memory
Of you holding my hand
As the dawn sun grew
In slow confidence,
Fanning out over
Marshes, fields
And settlements,
And once more
We began.

Valhöll

I did not say good morning
To a magpie, solitary fellow,
Conspiring with a rooftop
To clag my hindered eyelids.

Nothing changed.
The day stayed the same.
Grey, motionless torpor.

A leaf appeasing gravity
Spiralled to the floor;
Breathing-in is a luxury
I cannot afford.

Under a lantern-clad ladder
Leaning up into Valhalla
I mindlessly walked;
I stamped on cracks,
Send me back,
And smashed a mirror
With my orb.

Nothing changed.
The night stayed the same.
Sirens, waves of woe
And obsolete laws.

That magpie loosened its claws
And disappeared into
All-consuming hours
Which do devour in tides
Both the man and the boy.