Three Poems by Phil Wood

Llangorse 

 

 

All gods need louder praise, 

it is their blood. The tribe 

constructed a crannog. 

 

The Elders gathered boys 

for sacrifice. The fire god 

flooded the land with ire. 

 

Gods war on other gods. 

We dug our deepest ditch, 

watered the saddest earth. 

 

The lake grew grey in mud. 

The Elders gathered girls 

for sacrifice. The tears 

 

of mothers rippled the lake. 

The kneeling warriors stood 

and coated faces with earth. 

 

The Elders fled. But two 

will die on the crannog. 

They chant, loudly at first: 

 

Tribe offer us no boys 

Tribe offer us no girls 

Tribe offer us no bread 

 

And the tribe chanted: 

 

Like the curve of a moon 

Like the curve of a smile 

Clings the curve of a scythe 

 

The Unguarded Hours 

 

 

The door creaked happily. It hung 

loosely. She said this was instinct, 

a leafy joy. He bought a lock 

and bolt. He hated draughts, the whiff 

of forest lives. The cold steel gleamed. 

 

The table wobbled just enough, 

an oaken chuckle, rooted in 

a border’s tale. She said it was 

just fiction. He sniffed her hooded smile 

and crackled a fire with Granny's book. 

 

The bed hosted a sapless sigh 

that moonless night. Its iron frame 

fettered his howl, no bole or bough 

to post a dappled light. He woke 

alone and wept. She slept and roamed.

 

 

The Wreckers 

 

 

The sacrament delivers Him, says take, eat this, 

 

know sacrifice. There is no bread, no wine, no bliss. 

 

 

We kneel for them, and us, for hunger bites and biles 

 

our bellies, culls our children. Are their deaths our trial? 

 

 

The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear their voices, 

 

we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls 

 

 

We gather on the sand, the cove a whisper of prayer, 

 

our sin is humble need, we breathe the salted air. 

 

 

Come keeling ship, come closer, crew a childhood of wraith, 

 

beguile their sight with candled night, believe in faith 

 

 

The wrecking rocks are Him, let guilt be our relief, 

 

belief shall bite, our guile will free our womb from grief. 

 

 

The darkness rises, the great wave curls, we hear their faith, 

 

we hear their call, the darkness rises, the great wave falls.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting, chess, and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, including : Byways  (Arachne Press Anthology), Klecksograph, Fevers of the Mind (a collaboration with photographer John Winder).