Mark Goodwin

TWO POEMS

Torridon Peopled

scree's broken     words grate & clatter     our boots punc
tuate travel the     slip     of stone over stone of     frozen
spears doors bullets of     ground ice     feathers tangling

white strands on     philosophies of cold a     foothold of
silvery solid     worth     warm gold the sun     plates slabs
with frail light under     ice-skin over glacis water wriggles

black     gurgles downwards like tadpoles under cellophane
east wind twists     Siberian thoughts     into our skin     our
fingers tinder     set     alight with ice whilst     indoors invades

our centres with its distant mass as all this Highland vast wraps
us with     open     our day is a gap of light cracked     in winter's
stone night we rush     through we     turn     from hard iced

rocks & blade air we     descend     to the valley's waiting hol
low shapes     frozen moss & yellowed grasses     cup our steps
with soft crunches     as the light drinks     it     self dry & dim

a crowd     of birch saplings knee & waist high are a     people
we walk amongst     I touch     their twig-ends     so     the slender
map lines     they     make vibrate like memories     on     fire but

 

 

my warm bedding cools to moor

but I am not unsheltered     nor chilled     this little
bothy condenses     its weight     of stone blocks

wooden beams     slate tiles     the bothy clings to
land under wind     it is bravery     in it & from in it

my body & heat spread     peacefully out to the sweet
danger     my arms & legs     stretch     kilometres in an

instant some me     grows     as a slow map sleepiness
pulls     my heat to laser through     shadows expands

my confines     to concentrate distances     reeds tussocks
rocky knolls winter red     -twigged birches black peat

-water dried grasses snow     -silvered ridges & mountain
flanks icicles moon behind     speedy whisps of frayed

sky faint     platinum lochans cliffs white     twirling strands
& filaments     of streams steaming falls all     spread through

my bedding stretch     my flesh &     bones     wide & tight
through & across     miles of wild ground around     this

         foetal house I     drift     my stillness in

 


Copyright © Mark Goodwin, 2007.

Mark Goodwin works as a community poet in Leicestershire. He has published in a wide range of magazines, and his first full-length collection, Else, was published by Shearsman Books in 2008.