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GRWYNE
FAWR RESERVOIR
until
I reach the sponge heather top
of
the tarren I do not know what is not what I am
because
my older knees shake and my fatty heart quakes
and
I think of these welsh cyms as cunts these vales around
haired
with green wet with trees hot with bracken
and
until I reach the sponge inform heather top
with
non-walker’s boots unfit breath sweat body retching
I
do not know how to see out but then with a start see
heather
hitting the eye heather heather white’s purple
white
blasting the eye and purple lifting the hill top
and
until I reach the sponge inform heather top
of
the tarren I do not see what has lain an age here
all
winter unlooked at through snow through what sun through rain
this
far water overhung calm this reservoir distant completed
that
has been here an age and is perfect yet is never looked at
like
a gully on mars like other skies patterned like most of creation
unseen
these
waters an age these agèd waters upon which no eyes
so
that here is the not what I am the unseen all the utterly other
in
these waters unseen because no eye seems to have seen them
until
I reach the sponge heather top inform.
Alan
Marshfield
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