Birds Edge
Dearne dips quietly under a gust
gust, ancient immigrant,
economic refugee, ancient
unease, at home when
never-at-home,
middle-name is Flit.
the gypsy gust a
strobe works trees
industrial estates prevails
Shanty town gust prevails
wherever industry
lays down its casual hat
reports it’s got a shotgun
sees you here again,
not responsible.
Gust knows where you live,
shoulders door,
that cracks garden into splinters
as if you’ve committed •••
Birds Edge
Dearne avoids gust
says, “You don’t want some of my old crap!”
gust words never said,
words never made,
to any that’ll listen.
Gust howls down the valley
Caresses with compliments one minute,
calls you a bitch, a bastard and a whore the next.
You make stories of the snatches it brings, filling-in gaps between the gusts:
iron-age forts, Roman roads, mill-wheels, civil-wars, ra:re.ru~siap,birds,bell…pits, strikes,’ -garig…;wars – ~
And quietly flows the Dearne,
while loudly blows the gust of waste, gust of renewal, gust of rev~lation, from the source to the mouth
of a hidden valley and its listening.
The Wombwell Rainbow 