Issue One

Autumn 2011


from I. Tŷ Schrödinger

i. Cwm

We come over the lip, drop to the bowl where lake seeps from itself, heather underfoot, a monkey-puzzle tree beside the house, lichen enamels walls that close round memories, dust, the word for ‘us’. No one speaks. The water can’t recall the smell of sweat, the taste of blood, the language of slate—the path to the chapel is long.

 

ii: Slate I

Water sucks colour from the sky, staccatos against the shore, greys granite ruins, grinds the scree-scraped rock; falls—slate needles on the lake—the last remaining roof-tiles stutter—
It’s late,

‘s late

slate

 

II. Cwmorthin for two voices

And the snow falls and falls
on the greying face of slate
and the ruined village calls                                 And the snow falls

through crumbling granite walls                                                            and falls
through the river’s crashing spate
and as snow falls and falls                                  and the ruined village calls

the wind keens and crawls                                   
into crevices to wait,
still the ruined village calls                                  as the snow falls

as a hush of ice-web palls                                                                         and falls
bury broken barn and gate
while the snow falls and falls                              and the ruined village calls

on the mill’s shattered halls
slipping to a silent fate,
and the ruined village calls                                 as the snow falls

out its grief as it falls                                                                                and falls
and knows it’s too late
and the snow falls and falls                                and the ruined village calls
and the ruined village calls                                 as the snow falls
                                                                                                                  and falls

 

______________________

Jan Fortune