A Walk: October 17th, Feast Day of St Richard Gwyn

In Llantysilio Church, Ps 111:

He has shown his people the power

of his works giving them the land

of other people.

"...the land of other people."

*

rust      hill's edge

          with 7 idiot trees

Barber's Hill where they hung the barber

who throttled the barber's wife. Still,

here the bracken shouts, "Prehistory!"

green   

mustard   

oxide red   

russet    

the first rust

*

The Dee's a silver will and yammering.

*

Valle Crucis

horsefly cloud

dead trace

corner music

*

Llangollen Mary had a little lamb

but Mary Rhyme was older. Still,

path down is conker strewn

glisten where
the shabby leaves

*

human falls: delicate

sky mirror just up

from ferment

white

Stately rapist mallard drakes

go closer to the weir.

*

The clocks askew

*

This many crows are broke charcoal

clattering on rain thick clumps of grass.

*

You'd learn the thing but

never
quiet
enough

Come down again

to sweet detritus riverside

Bus note 77

        5a to Wrecsam.
Dandy in sour uric cloud
with worn out violet scarf.
        Us two perched
        on swung down seats
        before him,
his white long baby hair
testifying. Quiet.
        I clutch yellow bar
        and lean
        head forward
with eyes blurred
and stung. Done in.
        Loop of Station Rd
        almost has me over
        at Rhiwabon.

Llangollen Motor Museum

Bus note 76

The stops on Dudley Road
by Summerfield Park:
        Older boys ride
        gondola swings
then the ballet over baby fences.
        One bikes across and harries
        the electric wheelchair kid
(soon gone, mind).
        Fucked up halal butchers van
        coughs smoke that shadows face
of thin frantic girl
who swigs her Nutrament
then hunts for a fag
swearing wired-eyed.
        Read pavement flecks
as Horse chestnuts
cut Park in half.  

Heavenly Food

Fat dark fly meanders unfelt on dogtooth check lapel
of silverbearded wary auburn man: a territory. Silver
cup of blood held out. Body shakes; a moment. Hands
palm up as if on the beg. My body. Everybody
in a line going back to where my eyes don't go.

Bus note 75

Pink polka dots
on soft blue cotton top.
        About twenty and
        thin as anything.
Broke pieces of laugh
and snatched glances.
        From Moseley
        to St George's
where her mother
cups her elbows
        in grey hands
        pressing her
outside into warm air.
        Density.

Portrait 10

            human   water    falls

             a thinnish mouth

             hands in pockets
                for solitary kickabout

    Old Whiteheaded Villan

                 Autumn chittering

    blackened twig garland

                out the back

                 Brummagem
             vowel music

                Old Age's a bastard
                                      but still
              on scuffed up ball

Bus note 74

Pulls a sycamore leaf from a tree
and rubs his hands with it
        then stabs
        at pictured fuckers
and goes raging up
Edgbaston Road
        as our bus necks crane
        amused or afraid
till the roundabout
and the dead electric menorah
waiting on working wires.

West Bromwich Market