THE FALLEN AT LUMB FALLS
after Six Young Men and Last Letter by Ted Hughes
We called ourselves poets, set forth.
Four of us on a haiku walk.
abandon diving
empty rock and falling fast
water streams onwards
early summer sun
tall shadows down bridle path
clatter on cobbles
Lumb Lane hums with anti-capitalist talk,
the sway of a wide brimmed hat,
the too taut stretch of a red ‘t’-shirt,
earnest paunch of philosophical thought.
mossy elbows rest
wild garlic licks muddied boots
poets eat their words
six young men longing
fall sheltered in river deep
shifting pool of light
We watch a dipper flit in dappled flight,
a black and white blink, snaps memory.
garlic crushed gossip
shocks nature into silence
whispers caught in leaves
Bracken brushes knees not yet fully grown.
We stumble on, shamble along borders.
War-blinded, last letters home, litter our path.
In the kingdom of the confessional,
a crow sits waiting.
the last mill pond knows
a flash of mane catches sun
seven streams remain
THE WHITE-TAILED SEA EAGLE RETURNS TO ORKNEY
Skin hungry we are returning
to the islands of the dead.
Spreading our wings
the size of doorways
to let you through.
You kept visiting us
after we left.
Stroking our bones
caressing our skulls
calling us back.
Laid out on slabs
of stone, we ripped
your heart out.
Now again
we lift your spirits.
Nestle our young
against hard edges
rock-cut tombs.
Watch as you disappear
into the earth.
THE LISTENING POST
Is that your breath
the gentle putt putt
of air blown across
a soft blanket, the pink
purse of lips,
the waffle and weave
of words not yet formed,
beige fur stirring
as you search the breeze
in your sleep, chubby fingers
feeling the warmth of your own body
beneath a pelt that rocks from side to side
slides in time from thumb in mouth
to curls, wound in waves
of white cotton handkerchief
warm ironed, a scorch of steam billowing
prepares to sail this raft of cot,
of slatted bed
adrift for a while
before the night is over.
And in the damp breath of morning
your body has travelled
across degrees of latitude,
lain longitudinally on shores
where the sand of muffled calls, breaks
soft treads on cold stairs
a squall away from the call
of a Lord’s prayer.
Marion Oxley is originally from Manchester but has been living amongst the flood plains of the Calder Valley in West Yorkshire for some time now. She was recently shortlisted for the Cheltenham Poetry Festival’s ‘Wild’ competition and the Erbacce Poetry Prize. She is widely published in poetry magazines and anthologies.
What truly wonderful poems! Succinct, skillful and so very deft 🙂