This poem only really made sense to me a couple of years after I’d written it. I don’t want to set a narrative for any readers it might have – but I’m happy to share if you’re interested!
Under the Black Mountain clouds smear the sky purple, blue and black; bruised colours. Rain scours the earth. Each day I clear what streams I can hacking at tangled undergrowth. I prise a moss-crowned boulder from its sandy bed; bare stone exposed, it looks part dressed. In Worcester, Mary watches the river from her window. Today, the swans are sheltering, but a dead cow floats past, stiff and upended in the swollen water.
Brecon Beacons, 2008
Poetry by Sylvia Fairclough 