Poetry

Iceland late April Canada

Peter Owen-Jones Peter Owen-Jones

These planks these bricks and buildings begged with fish wrenched from night and wool heaved from unswept stones and wreaths of infant bitter moss and the wind cutting crosses written into the skin there in the pages of men who sit and wait and wait for spring still living with stoves and horses knowing the many names of water

Who will bride the boy holding ice in his hands for longer than any London man sweeping Fulmars from the sky who knows the mountain as his mother her warm saliva in his eyes held by her complexions and mute as she speaks in rain, The warm flesh of the forest speaks formed and spun from sleep did you not know you emerged from broken stones contaminated scent with words and cried the dead bound husks of grief into the ground.

See he will break every door to find you bringing thistles for your feast parched grass to quench your thirst these are the crumbs of splendour.

Gulfoss, Iceland, April 2017, David Peters

Peter Owen-Jones is an English Anglican clergyman, author and television presenter.

Linocut, Rabbit/Wolf, Theo Peters https://theopeters.co.uk