by Rachael Boast
Eagle Rock, Buckland in the Moor
Over and over the moon washes her fragments
in the water, moving downstream as she does so,
following the foxglove wall to where yesterday
I walked on, seeing what I hadn’t seen, hearing
what I hadn’t heard, alert to the stresses
falling into water-paths excited by stone,
echoing the above into the below
as they move towards the hinge of the valley,
the river in spate, page after page turning
on a rhyme, repeating the word water
over and over again. Over and over again
the moon washes her fragments in the water
moving downstream as she does so, following
the foxglove wall to where the dark wood
listens into itself. A slab of cloud holds
in the shape of an anvil hammered by nothing
into nothing. My mind is bracken, catching
the flying sparks of rain over and over again.
The moon washes her fragments in the water
but this doesn’t last. I’m glad it doesn’t last.
How else could I come back to this house
on the rock overlooking the moor, listening
to long waves of air releasing another shower
from the speaking leaves of the wood ?
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