Paul Perry

Ticknock

From here the view of the city is a right
An undulating wasping chimera
Man on a hilltop
Or woman or child
As once I was    bedded
In the mountain furze
Yielding
The city then is the grave
And the contours and slopes of the hills is its opposite
Magic and hidden and mythological
I am not the only one to say so
But I will be from now on
Let it be a protest and the rising hawk a sign
A flag of some kind of return
The cars career careen and un-sow
The seams of the hills
The city’s spell broken
Rapacious – swarming with death
If after all the city is a grave
The wind moves through the forest
Smell of pine – up up up
Into the air into the past and future
Be here the stones cry
The mountains moving farther inland
The sea all roiling
Filial embrace like the noise
Of a blue light as if it were
A ship set sail lost unanchored
Making its way up to the foot of the hills
To the spine of whatever god has summoned us here 

 

 

 

Paul Perry’s latest book is The Last Falcon and Small Ordinance, (Dedalus Press, 2010).

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