on the moors the wind
is a kind of silence
I remember nothing at all
was not there
knew nothing
there is ash all down the coverlets
but Spring blossoms wildly
imagine now such a mouth
all down and not up
we paused at the ancient bridge
how we said how
but by our feet the germander speedwell
the river no more than a beck
overspun by a vast and heaved tongue
of rock
an owl as if to say
alighted on the nearby
look into my yellow eyes
really, so nearly, so it goes
on the moors the wind
is another kind of silence
.
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2 comments:
I don't know if this appropriate for me to comment, but I am flattered for this poem and inspired by where Steve lives and
how he has presented his "home" to me. I know that the South lands (are famous for many things, but hospitality included) and I know Americans are somehow cousins just as gypsies are, but why could I go in the London Museum for the first time and find my way around. Such is this place, I was part of the landscape once. The only hesitation is the title, I think that we never lose "forever" as having lost a brother, the relashionship continues after the person dies. Long winded as ever, but I really like this poem and thank you.
Laurie, many thanks for commenting. I like titles that apparently have nothing to do with the poem, as I like the antagonistic interplay between the two things rather than them seeming to be in harmony. Plus I just like deploying extreme statements, especially in combination with pastoral stuff. It feels a bit like writing the word 'MURDER' on a flower or something. Anyway, thanks again. Was interesting getting to know you in the interview, and hopefully everyone can read it soon. There will be a link on here to the next issue of Triggerfish Critical Review anyway.
Steve.
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