Question Author
A chalk spine
lies above these collapsed roads and trees,
choric bystanders
and cars doomed to muddy rivers.
Continually in sight, the Downs
slash a transverse elevation
through levelled fields
and water �
The high hills,
always with us
like inequity, mauvais chance,
the clatter of bad news
in a consulting room.
In limestone pastures, though,
everything shifts with the water table
whose grit slips yellow
from your tap,
stinks when you open the car bonnet
to the sun.
*
Imagine the spine�s
fossil curve:
how it sinks a hook into the dark.
Seahorse remnant, residual ammonite.
Seep, silt, the pelvic crescent�s
alluvial sex smell �
darknesses, compressed
as fear compresses,
to drift-shapes, fish mouthed
on ocean floors,
half-recognisable
in some black-and-white dream.
The mineral spine
ground feather-thin,
eroded by air-stream dark
to an archaic lace,
like figures raised in grainy stone
among alders �
whose dark silhouettes
stud the flood-water �
spires prayer climbs past,
breath
floating free of everything mineral,
rising from this bedroom:
where curtains
keep out the night-whisper of rain
and gather a flexible dark.