|
Mark Goodwin
Frightened in the Gap
rumble of machinery behind hedges
thick walls of summer leaf shaken dusty
metallic whistle-rattle of dozer tracks
same sound as battle-tanks
same iron noise as in war films
of Panzers approaching
relentless across landscape
through houses of cardboard
and woodlands of matchsticks
I walk towards the noise & leaf wall
angry as a man following his bayonet
it is hot but I can't smell my sweat's musk
only burnt diesel's wriggling particles
I crouch and watch
from a gap in the green defence
from within the frail branch barricade
the machines will rip
I could stand
in front of one of these manufactured beasts
matador-arrogant Tiananman-square-style
but I don't
pathetically rabbity I watch it happen
the meadow being peeled raw brown
high oaks turned to torn stumps
the ancient in me is petrified
by this tool-violence he discovered by accident
and the modern in me he is bored of hope
and the me of me she-he is stuck
somewhere between them lost
somewhere amongst their war
I crouch in the hedge alive
amongst live green for the time being I stare
at the ground's emptiness which used to be a place
which used to be a place
where I recognised my self
Sloe
a sloe's first flavour shrill
then the clinging-pelt after taste the stone worried
clean of fruit by my tongue rough
wood-distraction
in my mouth hedge-nipple saliva comfort my footfalls
on soft rain ground ah
and the authoritative-chitter of a blackbird his or her
demand to the demands
of landscape's declaring shapes behind rising floating lines
of mist
hedges moss fences algae walls lichen slopes this is England
this evening's sky's like
the comfortable threats of a sloe's flavours
(under it I'm tiny
on this rucked carpet of Charnwood I crawl
through a shadowy weave
of wood rock & soil thread) my breath
just shows its white
bloom in the cool a strip of sky brightens
and o a back-lit-birch my feelings
for you are almost dirty your hairy trailing twigs
long white limbs black fingers your pliant
sketch haughty against sky gods' blissful distress
yet gentle in air filigree of frail embrace long sapless grasses clutch
at my ankles my footfalls
slowed through thoughts
now papery voices of walking
into autumn my footfalls amongst
fresh fall perhaps frost-loosened a layer
of rust-orange beech leaves mixed
with soft green larch needles a ditch gurgling a partridge's
feather peppered with water droplets I touch it balanced
clear wobbles mercury-like slide off leave
the feather dry
Leicester's distant street lights
to the east below this Charnwood high ground -
another place other places being lit city (a bowl of embers)
(a king dividing his mind
with thoughts of daughters) my footfalls painted slow
by mud
in my eye-corner a flamey shadow -
a sudden fox gone ha ha a fast hare vanishes the sun's fall
at first shrill strands through clouds then
the deepening into pelt a huge black oak claims
leftovers of sky the dark cling yes tonight
just before sleep - dream-bloomed black-blues the taste
distinct just beneath
mist
The Widening
the lorry brings slivers packed
tight in tanks
where the wet meadow used to be
a lit expanse waits a new dimension
for spangled beings its surface ripples
the driver nets a metallic fantasy
transfers sleek packages of virility
from tank to tub together we carry
a sloshing vibration to the meadow's
edge
my hands are drawn into the quivering
inside the tub a sense as fresh
as teenage disclosures of touch
or that first swim whilst naked
slippery musculature flips & slides
against my arms as cold wraps
my wrists I see yellow-rimmed eyes
wide
my heart pumps its dark current
and the lake's inside is wide inside me
the bank's dark soaked soil smells
cool & full the driver celebrates
another release with
words
Brookies Brownies Rainbows
and look a Zebra Hybrid!
he describes the finery of rainbow-fabric
each red spot bears a blue pin-head
we tip the tub towards the new dimension
they nose the rim then
explode
like knowledge they streak
soundless sucked out by the weight
of open
Copyright © Mark Goodwin, 2007
|
