Tom Barwell
somerset
i heard a tale this place is fake,
her poetry, her paint,
this gentle birth of hips and cheeks,
her quiet, mossy springs,
as though each filament
had not emerged from tragedy,
and snowdrop couldn’t tell the tale
of death, collapse all hope, and
nuzzle its breath into the ringing earth.
spring’s caress tempts wheaten fingers
from such sodden graves, their waves
atomically massage human witnesses,
overturning revolutions’ straight,
undoing critical urban planes.
bricks, in relief, become supple long leaves,
traffic lights turn into bees,
the thunder of bored offices
runs by in unrelenting streams.
her belly, under the ruffles,
takes in concern, breathes out,
skittering her lambs in morning
steam, heaves their carbon into
hungry crops, making oval loaves
from pure sunlight and precipice.
these fields are like the sky, passing
on all that london’s tried,
woodland eyes clock the shade with
mona lisa’s surety; not a speck of pretence
taints her poise. there is no stab wound
in this acorn, no bullet in the songbird’s
tune, villages nestle in crook and brow,
churches tie a timeless vow,
hedges stitch and cattle low,
not in ideal dreamt, but stead.
while toxins flood these blue veins,
she remains immune, her art
blossoms, filling fruit-high hems, as
blackberries crown the dry stone walls,
apples flush alert,
and graveyards, peaceful as a root,
lay shaded by her ferns.
august crow
regarding, master crow leans,
then withdraws with a bead of my
belly wedged in his resin beak.
he doesn’t swallow yet.
he tips his head, incurious,
tugging at a ticket
machine, elastic skin tearing,
not quite severing.
a gentle exchange of potential,
no frustration, courtesy of my
pescatarian forefathers.
he adjusts a shoulder for grip, his
nimble fork, delicately clawed,
contemplates my tongue, tines
poised for piracy.
i know his wife: she’ll put my blaze
of turquoise around the rim
of her nest, and
save the burnt sienna for the
living room. our egg indent
will make a good sofa.
i appreciate the murder: a calming
sermon, delivered with undeniable
expertise, a distillation of
bright water. something decided,
this corpse was never home.
there’s a place i know, if
fortune’s feathers splay so far –
a yew a thousand years, a hollow
older than that, the other side of
a river that cannot break.
i’ll go to that glade, as i always have,
he to his broomstick mansion,
our lightning brushes together,
a gate releases its catch.
Tom Barwell is an English poet, psychotherapist and coach. He’s especially interested in nature, human nature and the relationship that implies.
