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

erbacce-press

Iakovus Brown

MONK HILL

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

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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