Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Iakovus Brown


I’m out in the cold. My mapping pen scrapes
the torment immobile of black stark pines,
I peer again, again at the landscape:
the wild rain that makes the flint paths shine.

Forgotten pain. As good as dust. Alone.
On empty roads the dark is a thick coat
I wear and breathe. Life in a house of stone -
on a bare moor where none can hear my shout!

What peoples this vast solitude? What flame
lights the fell’s tales, the tangled play of trees
into faces present for centuries?



My eyes magnify a spider,
on a statue tying up a fly.
It scales threads into shadow
as though aware of being watched.

What if it could know a man?
If I stood in the light some visitor
might see me, detailed,
an angel might stare through my eyes.


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