Wednesday, 20 July 2011

Hay Tor


Here it is bare, the truth an element.                                                                  
And it is nothing like he promised.
Any moment now he will bend his knee,
Offer the tightening circlet of gold.
The spewed out rocks imperfect for
Framing this failing scene of proposal.
Despite the haze of blue, galaxies
Are just there, beyond the cloudbanks.
Sundown the sky will ink, the stars will
Be countless weights wanting an answer.

She turns from the Tor, its ancient gaze.
People flock to a foal, pose for a picture.
Stroke the grey coat and the just born ribs.
But it is not moving because it is dying,
That much is clear. Sickened,
Barefooted, she goes downhill.
His voice tries to coax her back.
The wind turns the words into a language
She cannot understand. Phrases are lost.

Later, greying, he will try to recall her.
Yet all he can see is the way she carried
Her sandals in her right hand as she left him.
The leather strings hanging from her fingers
Like a dead octopus. Subconsciously
He rubs his palm to remove the slime.


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