WHARNCLIFFE CHASE
- May 8
- 1 min read
By Alex Oliver
It paints with textures
moss, thistle and grist;
crushed stone, mushed pulp
pigments and petals;
calcite, feathers, blood and bone
and thumb-crumbled moorland dung
It scrapes at animal skins
stretched on deadbone frames
with tooth and claw
with grind and chaw
tangled with thorn shorn shreds
of sheep-shed wool
The wind grates sky-scoured stories
And farmyard slip
slaps a lap-water louvre,
in puddles and ponds
reflecting alien script.
Scrivener-scrawed
nail-dragged;
a biting abductee -
sack-headed, bound,
sobbing
It steps back and cowers
from its own grim detritus -
ground gristle and mist
celebrating living dead materials
The rain has bled the wind-blown dust away
exposing secrets
only this process can reveal,
hidden as they are
beneath spells
cast in iron
cast in casements
cast in caustic cadavers
and choking throatworms
of spite