December the 8th

              1.

If He'd been here
Starving, woozy,
Arms like sticks
The light almost gone
       from his face
             almost gone
       from the year

Alone
Between the moors and the rushing West Allen
Between twisting grass and the wind's wet fingers
Between a few shreds of memory
             and the blank of the future,
Clinging for support
             to a bent-backed tree

Hot porridge and milk
From a passing farm lass
Then carefully, carefully down to the river.

Shock of the water, peaty with run-off
       over slippery rock;
Washing His body, that stick of a body;
Tossing his food bowl to the trout king's kingdom.

Death's wet fingers grab cloth, grip flesh
As, armful of wet hay, he chooses a tree,
Birch, alder, rowan?
       hard to tell in this gloom.

Then the resolve
       as the damp creeps deeper
"Should skin, sinews and bone remain,
And blood and flesh wither away,
I'll never move from this sitting place
Until full enlightenment."

Head-up He waits.

             Mara
Charges out of Wolf Cleugh
On a thunder-footed bull.

                    2.

He was here
Always here

Clouds tumble over Middle Rigg,
Rain reaches across the slopes
To caress the river's rippling spine,
Old water, new water,
Who need attempt
       Dividing?

©2002 julian skinner

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