Troll
He set aside the lure
of adrenaline,
binned the brochure
of treasure places,
took his morning stroll.
His friends were waiting:
a robin flushed with song,
pike preying
in the cloudless pool,
the chatter of willow.
He sat himself down
on the Dolmen,
listening for so long,
just like the rocks he forgot
about gaudy places.
Tales from the Borderlands
With fog prowling across the moor,
a tale prickling all kith and kin.
That hunger howling from the tor,
in lore an unbounded hound of sin.
The chapel bell, a single voice
of hope for straying folk, goes still.
A kneeling priest, his lonely choice,
must chant an ancient binding spell.
The beast whimpers as if the moon
has shone upon his mother's tomb.
A pale bow sings a deadly tune,
the hounded priest is bound in doom.
Myth at Glaslyn, Snowdonia
It steals your solitude:
a movie sad mum
naming you Guinevere.
I, at least, ignore litter:
Excalibur deceits
of Lancelot and Arthur.
The lake slowly unfolds
my gran's tablecloth of
pomegranate blooms.
I am a little boy
again, a mountain maker
in steaming porridge.
Phil Wood was born in Wales He has worked in statistics, education, shipping,
and a biscuit factory.
His writing can be found in: The Wild Word, Abergavenny Small Press,and a
collaboration with John Winder at Fevers of the Mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment