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