when your friends get published . . .
Matthew has been a pal of ours since forever; he has been there through important moments in our lives like felling the Larch to start the building process at Larchwood and teaching Aubrey how to use a chainsaw (scary!) . . . and this year he got published!
So what better way to kick of this brand new year than with his poem about the Wye. These words manifested themselves during many nights over the years camped out here in Hay on Wye on the banks of the river PLUS it was most definitely influenced by paddling the 100 mile expedition on the Wye with Aubs and a handful of other great people in November 2016.
So lets start 2021 as we mean to go on . . . with recognition, good intentions and kindness.
(and if you want to read more grab a copy by emailing The Collective Press email@example.com)
darkening up to iron over the surface
scoops clear in the hand,
silvers well when sown.
Working rhythm stealing our musical circuits
sliding off the land
smoothing stone with stone
rain swell heaps
a load surge coloured by the plough to turn surplus.
Drought, and the darkening again
and the silent black mirror
hoisting the stars
until low spirals of mist
evaporate in the climb of the morning
and welt of the sun tone the river blue.
Blue where the lock of earth opens
the soft deceits of colour
where context parts
and distance works bending tricks;
change of shade only deepens the meaning,
everything of earth and night and blue.
Clear, stone-sweet contact
cupped in the hands where it slips,
source of river swear my mouth to begging.
Reddening mountain backs
and you take up the slicing bracken
for a lie in your hand
while the sun lies in truths
as the sun lowers and draws
all the light the sun plays
to work the sky and clouds
and the source darkens up
to black, black and clear as night,
and the stream brims
through the night
under the living stars
under the light of the collapsed,
lucid nature sluicing murmurs
musical whirls only the ear can see.
Daylight, and the true lie of blue.
Blue of black water through summer
Under the colour, the tow –
healer of suicides –
force of the sea dropped from skies,
of the falling,
of the river running.
The tow is contract –
cool of your body where touch slipped –
summon of river the body’s keeping.
This is the way dreams tap
and drive the river into happen
solid and black and span
of present sleep that moves,
and the river comes secured
in a cute lie of shade
ring clear in the shallows,
so the night river cups
in all that blackening freight
a dream you swim,
swim the night,
so clear, so full of stars,
swallow the white light in a gasp
and go where the river wanders.
A black river full of stars that track so slowly.