Landlock
Rain came rarely to the white wood valley.
In between times, he did what he could,
cut rhubarb and gooseberries, brought flowers
from the hill: camel-thorn in winter, rest-harrow
in summer, rock-rose, barberry, mimosa.
He ground wormwood to settle her fever.
When the trouble was done he would take back the farm,
plant olive and cedar, build her a home.
But she thought mostly of the sea —
the uncommissioned sea —
wild at her, salt strong —
not the starving river, brackish and torn —
a river is never enough.
One of her wishes was to find her own path,
but the lowlands were locked down, the plains undone;
so they climbed, and climbed as one.
And when she could not walk he carried her
and when he could not carry her she walked.
Such as this the days went by, till his strength too was sapped.
He laid his back against the longer rock
and set her head that gently in his lap.
Sleep overtook them on the slope.
He woke to take the sunlight in his eyes
and could not see at first the greater distance,
the strange blue, stain blue light in the distance,
that seemed every bit to move, impossible, surely,
a thin drawn band of sea, somewhere meeting sky.
He raised her head that she might see it done.
But where she was she had already gone.
Published in the Guardian, 25 July 2009
The Sea Stick
The low tide brings her in,
scouring the surf-line
for dogweed and jellies,
stones coughed from the sea.What interests her more
is the take of wood
that she gathers for the fire.
She knows how things burn,beginning with the kindling:
birch bark and fir cones,
dust from the wood wasps,
dried grasses, wisp cotton, a feather.Then the fragments of spark-wood:
willow and cedar, an arrow
of spruce, to make
the flame leap higher.What interests her most
is the hardwood: some oak or beech
to tip against the fire, and dry,
to slow burn through winter.But this tide brings something strange:
straightened wood, an arm in length.
It is not much, but in her mind
it might bea cane or staff or walking stick,
a tottering strut to take the strain,
a shepherd’s crook, a stake, a spear,
a plinth to prop the coal shed door,a chair back or a table leg,
the foot to foot a lovers’ bed,
a linen pole, a curtain rail,
a prank pushed through a bicycle wheel,a scullery mop or a mop handle,
the haft that held the malt shovel,
a flag mast, fence post, drover’s prod,
a riding horse, a child’s crib,a witches broom, but most of all,
a toy flute, yet to be bored,
that she puts to her lips, and blows upon —
as if raising a tune from the old life.
Published in London Review of Books, 8 May 2008
Wulf
from the Anglo Saxon
The men of my tribe will hunt him as game.
They will kill him if he comes with force.It is different with us.
Wulf is on one shore, I on another,
fast is that island, thickened with fens;
fierce are the men who guard it:
they will kill him if he comes with force.It is different with us.
It was rainy weather, and I sat down and wept,
and grieved for my Wulf, his far wanderings,
when a battle-quick captain laid me down;
that was peace for a moment, but only a moment.Wulf, my Wulf, it was wanting you
that made me sick, your never coming,
the unanswered heart, no mere starvation.Do you hear, Eadwacer? Wulf will carry
our whelp to the woods.Men easily break what is never bound.
Our song, for one.
Published in Poetry Review, Summer 2008