Hewing out some Hughes


a disappearance of distant trees
vapours menace these static, goblin moors
long after cock has called
morning. Still, they have adopted
me, and in the stillness of ages
razored a scraggy, scowl for mask
a long lexicon of limbs strung
around this heart of moss and stone.

yet down we must go, the river and I
take our leave of this murky, midway world
far from the falcon hinterlands
and that eventual, inevitable epiphany
at the end of all peregrination
now, muffled and watery are our steps
now a madhouse tumble
to where an otter, splendidly sleek
slips her pretty glittery face
beneath the shallows.

Re-inventing Hughes’ from his “Bestiary” selection of poetry for Shay’s word garden list prompt