You aren’t supposed to name
the emotion in the poem, just
show it obliquely (poetically)
but will you take a look at that
mountain, covered in moss,
all mulchy with leaves, there
is slate inside it, there used
to be more, the river makes
a good sound, and everything
is either overstated (me) or
Whether or not the topography
of the landscape is interchangeable
with a woman’s body is, suffice to
say, his problem. I focus on the real.
It’s quite a sight, these mountains,
so much that after five weeks it’s a
given to me, though I can’t speak
more than one word of Welsh.
Thankyou is dioch and I can’t
remember the word for ‘cheers’.
I’ve never had a strong sense of
smell, where one might smell
‘mountain dew’ I smell ‘mucus’,
though I can tell when it’s raining,
and when the Thanksgiving turkey
is off, in the middle shelf of the
fridge semi-covered in cling film.
Anyway, the mountain. It’s covered
in pines planted in rows, some
patches have fallen over (been
lumbered?), some are so thickly
set they look like they’ve been there
forever, as if I’d know the difference.
They’re not really mountains
but I’m Australian. You should
see the café in Corris, Adam &
Andy’s, it’s the cutest fucking
thing, it is the best, it is in fact
the only shop at all, but yeah.
Realness in the Mountains
4 May 2016