The wind-farmed forces of poetry
Would have me fake my own heresy,
Forge the authorship and cabotage
In documents pertaining to my new heritage,
A passport for ghosts and the movement of goods.
I live in a land of cauliflower-caulking chests
And cabbage-edge, my mulch-mind manoeuvred
To you like the magnet of myths,
Propelled up from the earth’s crust and into
The passages of Nicander and then Perseus.
One of millions melting into forest-fells
Of mostly man-made oblivion;
In this respect, we are all self-inflicted.
And so I would write, my veins the ink,
Of all that you’d do and all that you’d think,
Smelted in cauldron-cooked grief which turned
Diamonds to copper and charred lands of wheat;
West from here, industrial fodder
For cameras and actors and convenient scripts,
They train their dead mirrors,
Call falsehoods their friends and fire a thief.
No-one will know what really took place
When you and the hordes of new-found foot-soldiers
Disappeared without a trace; it took me,
Poet war-mongering tribe and the chief
To find you there, hidden, Medusa-like hair
And siren-like flesh, alone marrow-cold,
Shrouded and huddled within the grey fleet,
Their mouths filled with plastic, their bodies in sheets,
I slipped through the reeds of the real and the deaf;
Where white-grey mice-mould covered my
Feet, my bare feet suffered like yours
In the cabin, that summer in the woods,
The summer and seasons we cannot reverse,
Not summer in sheaves nor winter frost,
The two of us then, alone; you in the West
And me within the wild-willow woods;
I can taste the warnings from billowing spores and
Blossoming moss, their fate is well-framed within ours.
Then you speak, and a brand new poem is born.