Friday, 1 January 2021 at 08:23
Happy New Year!
It will be good to leave 2020 behind, but Covid and Brexit remain with us, and one way or another will for a very long time. Let’s hope there’s something good waiting for us in the wings.
“Janus” seems an appropriate emblem. It’s the third and last from my little Snowdonia sequence. All three poems appeared in Trans (2015)
Whichever way you look right now it’s dark.
You stumble into clouds, the fallen sky.
It skins its knees, it drags its arse
down thorn-raked paths, through gorse.
Mist shades to rain where last week’s gales
have splintered lanes with birch and ash.
A year ago, this two-faced month
was lower-ceilinged still – and dank – a cell.
Dark cottage: stone-walled, slabs harvesting damp.
And, as if a North Wales winter
wasn’t penance enough, tiny windows
dimmed the day right down to 20 watts.
Next door, Victoria was alive, if hardly well;
unamused and living on dry biscuits, beans,
a few weak lux of candle power.
Doorways into gloom, damp rooms,
black-beamed lintels hanging low and hard
to crack your skull against the dark.
And no TV. Under the mountain’s armpit,
incoming snow in Welsh was all a set would get.
Nights on all fours. Climbing up the ladder,
crawling into the crog-loft drunk
– broken headboard, duvet steaming when she stayed –
to crack the frost on a washed sheet’s crease.
Some hippie kid had stuck up stars,
glowing on the ceiling’s slope in dark.
Something to steer close by to sleep;
or puzzle over, on cold clear nights when Moon
looked in and licked a glisten over walls
where, at dawn, damp stood in for dew.
2. Fast Forward
Moody skies and muddy paths;
the other end of this road now but still
these same old horses in the rain, and sheep
– always the same eternal wet Welsh sheep.
Put tongue to fork and choose your road
then lick the miles of blacktop up.
Stick to this way, you’ll pick up speed
attain a virtual invisibility, moving with the light.
Or, cocked and double-bollocked,
reflect on feet, your own, rising from the bath, hinged
on steaming light like stubby wings
or ten-toed crabs, a foot-faced jack?
Check the two-headed joker in your pack.
The footpath’s swivelled signpost lies;
stay here and disappear up your own annus horribilis
or put some backbone into this month:
January finally spined with cold resolution,
this time, it might, just might, slip you a double-headed coin.
Pause at the crossroads, wind at your back
and smirking like coyote, calmly sniff the wind.
This is it. Who dares wins.
Take the coin and throw.
It spins. – And you with it.
This time you’ll really split
– get off your face or head off fortune at the pass –
You take both ways at once.