Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Three Poems by Byron Beynon


The boy sweeps,
the rain falls,
fish swim behind glass walls.
A gremlin enters
the machinery of sky,
strains the light to close early.
A carnival of tropical fish
edge their curious route
beneath the jetty of Welcome Bay.
Nearby a particular music
disturbs the parsley of rainforest,
a growing orchestra of high-pitched green.


They speak the language here,
beyond the west field
near to the place
where they can listen
to the high cry of crows,
echoing the untamed morning air
visible in the percussion
of their dance;
a harbour of trees
watching the sun rise,
vegetable-clouds lifting
the day with images,
a remembered map of understanding
following the keening mind's journey,
such is the sound of branches growing,
inescapable, their leaves of longing.


I watch them working the estuary
probing the mud with curved detectors,
intense with silence
they have waited until now
for the tide to leave,
urgent and fresh
the unknown thoughts within
investigate the intimate
in a mourning of wind,
coaxing in the winter light
a communal menu on this sure line,
they will return to these ingredients,
unbroken habits
that come once more
inside the day's echo.

Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, The Blue Hour, Poetry Wales, The Wilderness House Literary Review and The Wolf. His most recent collection is Human Shores (Lapwing Publications). A Pushcart Prize nominee.

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