Charting the Moor
Beyond the obelisk, a monument to the fair-haired warrior-king
(here, where once graves were mounded
rounded in rounding off)
I stumble on
fists of grass.
The landscape leans
toward the sea.
(And, yes,
it really roars,
crashing through
my body’s pretence
of solidity.)
The sheep announce their matter-of-factness.
Expelling pellets of shit, birthing
the knotty moor with careless dumps.
Clanging incidentally—the hollowness of ownership.
Striking the heath with their hooves,
like replies,
like sighs.
A graph.
A wave and a sudden spike.
The valley’s
subtle cresting
takes me by surprise.
Salt.
Tastes or smells of? Disintegrating
in the intercourse of life—
but I recognize the charter,
turn for home
and the infant wrapped
in wool. Sleeping.
– ren powell