The mystic in the fens
These destroyed fenlands housed in their hatred
a mystic, as though for a moment they’d forgotten to hate, even as hate was
their water and bread, and their hatreds colluded among other angers. She
emerged in the days when the sky turned bloody, she would bend in the wind and
sing to the birds, and chase hate from a raging heart, and leave you lonely out
on the fen. Suddenly timid, you’d remember the kitchen and tears would bubble;
the mystic has schemes. She could place you on a fen or an Anglian bluff, make
a hole in your chest for the innocent reeds, settle night in you like a fearful
town. But your hate is strong, and you have your own schemes: the granite walls
are rational, the games are chaotic. You spit, proclaim your keep and
inheritance, live in the bloody maw of the end. Never hearing the song in the
fenland winds. Denying the mystic speaks your name.
Townes-Thomas lives a
quiet life in London, England. He spends his time struggling to make sense of
the things he reads and the world in general. His poems are available in
Shoreline of Infinity, Scifaikuest, and Graphic Violence Lit.
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