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Lark on Pen-y-GaerIt would be while we were on the mountain(at the back of the mountain, before the ground rears up)that you looped and coiled like smoke unleashed,fell like guilt into the heather,and rose again, forgiven.It would be your song that we caught most clearly,your movement too swift to truly see,your falling after insects invisibleand your song piercing the air as darts of heat.And our eyes lifted to follow youand saw instead the chevaux de frise the silent sentries that outlasted their men and their horses both,timid but resolute in the grass.And the ramparts that were so carefully built upand so long tumbled back down,slumped, the shoulders of depression wreathing the hill.Neglect so old it transcended itself,and became uplifted and timeless,like the lark. Like the lark that looped and coiled like smoke unleashedand fell like guilt into the heather,and rose again, forgiven.
A Manual For Growing PoppiesWho would have thought mudcould be so heavy?Every step an accretion,a bracket fungus bracketing boot leatherin hollow homage to Mercury's wings.Every step a drag.Poppies will grow here, they say.Poppies will grow,lovers of bones flaked clean of their skin.Fertiliser, we become.Icarus is in the skies, falling in flames.Icarus and lead, kissing,out of their elements both.Icarus falling in flames,bringing heat to the lowly,seeding the ground with metal.Poppies will grow in the churned up soil.Poppies will grow,strong in our decanted blood.Poppies cleave to disturbed soil.The almanac is open at the seventy-second page.The seeds should be sprinkled on freshly dug soil.This is an expensive excavation.This should not be.Ack-ack traces the constellations.Ack-ack lights wires between the stars,and Icarus plunges in shame,shedding limbs like feathers to fertilise the earth,the smell of earth and blood and kerosene to keep us alive,the fire