Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

On the slopes of Mynydd Maen there is a hollow with a quiet pool. A sullen place in gathering storm. So it is, as I sit in grass listening for the cries of those trapped far beneath. Damned by their greed.

Mew of the buzzard
through whispering leaves
the wavelets ripple.

I bring to mind the story of this place, this ‘Pool of Avarice’ :  Long ago a wealthy house stood here. There were poor relations living on the far side of the hill. One day, as times grew harder, the poor man in desperation crossed the ridge. I see him crawling down towards the house.   Knocking on the door.  Waiting.  The clouds grow black above the hill.    He knocks again.   The door is opened.     Slow.

Rich fowl, bacon, fats and herbs
The warmth of bread, of conversation.

A tall and haughty dame stands in the entrance.   Her gimlet stare shows that  she knows me - why I’m here.

Just bread. A crust or two from last week’s loaf,  
I hear my pleading tones, truly my wife and children starve.

The tall one laughs.  Come see, she calls within, what's dragged itself from out the sin where it belongs. They come. They curse me with my just deserts. Spit on my  head. Withdraw into their world.

The tall one, last to go, gives me some words direct:  Naught do I have to spare  the likes of thee.  Be off before I loose the dogs!   

I start back up the hill looking for solace in the gathering storm.   A searing light.   The bark of thunder pounds the earth.     The rock begins to shake.    In  fear I fall and turn.    Below, the bowels of the hill burst wide.     Swallow the  farmhouse whole with those inside to leave a bare, dry hollow place. 

Slowly I slide. Come to a gentle rest in grass.

The birch trees hang
dark skies drop rain
the limp pool rings my silence