If only I […] could pass as clear as water through a plume of grass by Natalia Spencer

I am not a silent poet

—Alice Oswald The Self-Playing Instrument Of Water
..
Often he rose at five cracked ice to wash
gulped tea black as night’s last swatches
..
on the rare times he bought blade to chin
hands calloused from plough mill or forge
..
the prisms…. leapt out of puddled rain took him
no further than a Welsh shoreline
..
Often he sliced skin…. his blood….. a penance
for lack of craft on hand me down strop
 ..
Now ……..like eye of dead sun…….. the crucible hangs
useless on its axis
..
much the same as plastic razors storm blown
across polythene patchwork oceans
..
coral bleached……… crawling up
long sampan hulls…….. & tourist boats

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