poet. writer. imposter.
Through the trees, a rum tang
of brine encroaching; a brackish
lick insinuates itself into a bed
of coarse reeds that wither
with its saline sting. Aurochs
sensing their time is almost gone
move to higher ground for one
last summer; impassive as the waters
take the forest with a creeping whelm.
Then – long gone – a dead Atlantic
squall reveals their bones
and the sky-grasping stumps
of their broken sanctum that beg
for their sunken exile to end.
In the weary sulphurous air, ankle
deep in alluvium and laver, tripping
between brine steeped trunks, pacing
through lost wealds that weep
at the temporary deluge passing,
I see no sign of the land beyond
the auroch’s copse. No Atlantis
or Cantre’r Gwaelod; no Tír na nÓg
or even Narnia. Their fragile magic
lost with the passing of the herd.