Crossing the Aude, Limoux
The river's wide and shallow here.
The bridge stands on its gritty stilts
High up above the water.
Turning left after the bridge,
A new god suddenly arrived -
The narrow street, a cape of twilight,
The yellow-green tinge to the air,
The rustle and the movement of a storm god,
Lifting the hair from my shoulders,
Blowing the deserted street
Like a reed pressed to its lips.
I looked around me, as if expecting
It to take some form or shape,
To curve the pale leaves
Round its face, to suck them in
And blow them out like paper notes
Or bursting seed-pods, scented
With crushed lavender.
I looked all around me, searching
For the rustling whisper
Of the god's face, in the empty street.
Just a few dropped leaves,
Closed shutters over windows,
As if the houses were abandoned
Or the people all asleep.
And this wild god in the street,
Its ragged cuff brushing my cheek
As I looked for its face,
As I'd look for a signpost to follow.
It might have been a different season,
One that isn't autumn and isn't
What we know of winter, having nothing
Cold or cracking in it. I just know
I'd never met this god before -
Bluish lavender of evening sky,
Dusty cream-green of the leaning,
Settled buildings, the twilight
Strode like history, passed through me,
Took me with it, left me there,
Twirling in the dumb and scented street.
Struggling to feel blessed by what
It stole from me, took the best
Of me away with it and slipped
A memory inside me, like a long
Scratch on the surface of my skin.
The bridge stands on its gritty stilts
High up above the water.
Turning left after the bridge,
A new god suddenly arrived -
The narrow street, a cape of twilight,
The yellow-green tinge to the air,
The rustle and the movement of a storm god,
Lifting the hair from my shoulders,
Blowing the deserted street
Like a reed pressed to its lips.
I looked around me, as if expecting
It to take some form or shape,
To curve the pale leaves
Round its face, to suck them in
And blow them out like paper notes
Or bursting seed-pods, scented
With crushed lavender.
I looked all around me, searching
For the rustling whisper
Of the god's face, in the empty street.
Just a few dropped leaves,
Closed shutters over windows,
As if the houses were abandoned
Or the people all asleep.
And this wild god in the street,
Its ragged cuff brushing my cheek
As I looked for its face,
As I'd look for a signpost to follow.
It might have been a different season,
One that isn't autumn and isn't
What we know of winter, having nothing
Cold or cracking in it. I just know
I'd never met this god before -
Bluish lavender of evening sky,
Dusty cream-green of the leaning,
Settled buildings, the twilight
Strode like history, passed through me,
Took me with it, left me there,
Twirling in the dumb and scented street.
Struggling to feel blessed by what
It stole from me, took the best
Of me away with it and slipped
A memory inside me, like a long
Scratch on the surface of my skin.
Morelle Smith's poem Water Barge was the first poem printed in
Poetry Scotland Issue 1.
Poetry Scotland Issue 1.
Page(s) 3
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- Second Aeon
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