Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems by Lynette Roberts Page B

loam,
    Was felled innocent, suffered a stain as rare as Cain’s.
    Amelia Phillips, who would know that I lived lonely,
    Who would know old shrew that your goose’s wing
    Did more for me than the plucked asides of daily
    Nods: yet I had need of both to prove my sting.
    Cold grate, who would know that I craved my love;
    Who would know the pain fell twice; could realise
    My loss. Only the coloured cries of stars can prove
    The cold rise of dawn – understand and advise.
    White village, I lost my love. – He went floating
    Brushing the wet seas. He stood like a soldier trapped
    And thought of me but could not speak. Fighting
    Hard he stood, freeing nations the old enemy cramped.
    Hard people, will wash up now, bake bread and hang
    Dishcloth over the weeping hedge. I can not raise
    My mind, for it has gone wandering away with hum
    I shall not forget; and your ill-mannered praise.

The Circle of C
             I walk and cinder bats riddle my cloak
             I walk to Cwmcelyn ask prophets the way.
    ‘There is no way they cried crouched on the hoarstone rock
        And the Dogs of Annwn roared louder than of late.’
             ‘Red fever will fall with the maytide blossom
                 Fever as red as your cloak. Woe to all men.
             Food-ties will mellow in the bromine season
                       Then willowed peace may be brought.’
                       But what of my love I cried
                       As a curlew stabbed the sand:
                 And we cut for the answer. They said
             ‘He would come not as he said he would come
             But later with sailing ice, war glass and fame:
                       Grieve not it is better so.’
                       I left the Bay, wing felled and bogged
                       Kicked the shale despondent and green
                       Heard Rosie say lace curtained in clogs
                       I’ve put a Yule log on your grate.

Lamentation
    To the village of lace and stone
    Came strangers. I was one of these
    Always observant and slightly obscure.
    I roamed the hills of bird and bone
    Rescuing bees from under the storm:
    Five hills rocked and four homes fell
    The day I remember the raid so well.
    Eyes shone like cups chipped and stiff
    The living bled the dead lay in their grief
    Cows, sheep, horses, all had got struck
    Black as bird wounds, red as wild duck.
    Dead
as icebone breaking the hedge.
    Dead
as soil failing of good heart.
    Dead
as trees quivering with shock
    At the hot death from the plane.
            O the cold loss of cattle
            With their lovely big eyes.
            The emptiness of sheds,
            The rick stacked high.
            The breast of the hills
            Will soon turn grey
            As the dogs that grieve
            And I that fetched them in:
            For the good gates are closed
            In the yard down our way.
    ‘But my loss. My loss is deeper
    Than Rosie’s of Chapel House Farm
    For I met death before birth:
    Fought for life and in reply lost
    My own with a cold despair.
    I hugged the fire around the hearth
    To warm the beat and wing
    Yet knew the symbol when it came
    Lawrence had found the same.
    I threw the starling hard as stone
    Into the breaking earth
…’
    Dead
as icebone breaking the hedge
    Dead
as soil failing of good heart.
    Dead
as trees quivering with shock
    At the hot death from the plane.
            O the salt loss of life
            Her lovely green ways.
            The emptiness of crib
            And big stare of night.
            The breast of the hills
            Yield a bucket of milk:
            But the crane no longer cries
            With the round birds at dawn
            For the home has been