The Wolf

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

My running mate awakens me, warm dark
of rising fur, deep in the hollow den
we prize for safety. A snarl, a bark:
I'm nodded out toward the moongrey fen.
Paws plod cold river paths and gaming trails;
My eyes survey treeshadows, black on black
bar bateye sparkles flashing; now young wails
approach behind my stooping hunter's back:

My brood. Long night of blood road travelling
with yearlings, scenting fieldrush stranded hares,
their heartbeats shaking reeds; unravelling
night of roadturn ambush; night of flares
of teeth in stargleam gnashing at the skin
of moonblood silver shining dying prey:
This is my night, to bring my mate, within
the denning shadows of tenebrous grey

Our plunder from an eastern river bed:
I lead my pack, night free. Free wrath is fed.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

I scamper,
I scamper:

Pebble toed
and shingle pawed
over my master's road.
Midges commune on my
blackfur matted back,
nesting in my lank fat coat
and running as I run.
I hear the ground's scratch
between sharp breaths.
I swallow
drafts
of hot peat mist,
of steam from the flanks

of the slow cattle I drive.

I will
move
these shadows
on the road, past Corrigan's Hall,
past the rush, past the hum of air
in the pitch only I hear,
past the patch of bootmuddied grass
on the turning,
past the wild iris orange,
and past the gulf stream fancy palmtrees
in the bogside gardens
that goats have made acidic green
with their lips and gums.

I
will
drive these cattle,
by scurrying,
by hearing my master's whistles,
and his wellies scrunching,
pebble mountain wet. I will drive,
let the midges lodge on me.
I will drive my master's empire home
before sunset falls on Aughness
and our own west tide comes to flood us.

I will drive home.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

There, no crop was drowned by the flood,
no turf was spoiled, no cows lost out days
of grazing on those acres. Where dark blood
coloured mud sockets yawned, rays
of mountain sun fell lazily on pools
of flywing rippled water, never drained.
Dribbling tidal gushes and the drools
of storms bore on the rushes when it rained.

Joe stood, deep in his field, while one large, swift
corncrake circled, never gliding low
about his head. Joe saw it fade and drift
out, over to one island where a slow
windtide seemed in the rain to sound,
"Leave this lone poet to a flooded ground".

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

I hear a new laugh now. A monotone
hur-hur-hur. It breaks off with a cough
and sniff, then silence. People are done
laughing. There's a man who's had enough,
hear him laugh. Hur hur. He laughs. His grey
eyes are fixed within his puffy face.
He slouches on his stool, plays with a key
phrase from some old book and makes it base
with double meaning, though to him a trope
just isn't worth good effort anymore.
Now nothingness is come he'll seem to cope
by making laughter, hollow at the core,
hur-hurring full of wisdom on his stool
to empty rooms with no-one for his fool.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

a brook of stones, a green grave play of rain
a willow bough bent down, stream winded leaves
a leafy brook of stones, bough grave and green
a brook of leaves, my blood, a brook of graves

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

Earth apple purple.
Black wet clods.
Skin.
Spuds.
Octobersoak.

Greyslop wetness.

Chuckthumps in a black plastic bucket.
An allotment roof. Rattles. Galvanise.

A look back through wellied legs.
A ceiling of mud.

An exploded potato.
Slug gorge.

Riddleholes
in the skin.

A fingernail scratch.
Through a planet.
The wormroute, all the way through.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

Lurgandarragh, long hill of oak;
Maumaratta, young hare mountain pass;
Nephin slopes, ridge slidings;
cairn court stone, crudecrossed;
and dark Owenduff, black river;
water for deer; a pilgrim road.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

I tell myself, there in the heady bog
where blanket rush is shaking in a wind,
There is some language captured the clog
of black pool shallows, something of the mind
of earth beyond the reach of reason's fog.

I tell myself, there where the mountain steeps
a rush of oceanfacing heather fire,
There is some wisdom in that peak that keeps
beneath mute boulder stones and rainblack mire.
My heart will read this if my reason sleeps.

Green Sheeanmore, cascaderoad, Owenglass,
Green riverrun: No word, pure sound. Heart, pass.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

(last one on this thread from me)

The ocean, moonbright, a mirror, clear,
Nightpulsing, offers up the Lake of Dreams
reflected on black currents. I draw near

toward the midnight breakers, and I hear
strange echoes where the dreampool moon begleams
The ocean, moonbright, a mirror, clear.

Strange echoes sound: Cliffstranded cries of fear
from nightlost cattle storm the void with screams
reflected on black currents. I draw near

To where the knifing surf strikes up to tear
the stranded bog bare from its fielded seams.
The ocean, moonbright, a mirror, clear

rests as a chance of sleep to end this drear
of fraught seawanderings: Thoughtbroken streams,
relected on black currents. I draw near

Toward the mirror moon, to disappear
Beneath the shifting pulse of dreamspun beams
reflected on black currents. I draw near
The ocean, moonbright, a mirror, clear.

V V · December 2004

Soooo great to read you angain Finsbury.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

Thanks. I issed your posts and PMs. Good to hear from you on RM though!

hailhailkc · December 2004

Beautiful ...you really have a way with the written word Finsbury. Keep up the good work. It's honest, real and very admirable. You should be proud of yourself.

FinsburyParkCarrots · December 2004

Thanks, mate.

The Wolf

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