The River

1 August 2015

the hills sink through sky
the river flooding again
my dad on his knees in a field
talking to his dead mother

who is the symbol of a
plastic flower rotating softly
in the nothingwind
of a hometown

watery voicehole catching
that gurgle in the throat
when she lived, the river
running herself flat like battery

underneath the trees
and their hush-hushing firs
beckoning to other seasons
out of neon autumn

the dead come to us
from the centre of the earth
where we place them
to rise like bubbles

the dead come to us
from miles away like
the poem or the idea that
there is something beyond the hills

in the clouds, the testament
worth reaching for
the recycling of stone
my dad’s stubborn knees

collecting in a graveyard
that which moves backwards
like the rain falling up
like that particular david lynch

my dad bowed like an animal
breathing and only breathing
the hills and their feet
galloshing for him alone

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