Mortmain
It lurks in the
corners
of old outbuildings, field-stones piled
by great-grandfathers who knew why –
the mortar that held them fast
washed out by storms
and the price of lamb.
Released from the brittle grip of lime,
free of the possibility of profit,
walls bulge and make themselves comfortable.
Let the roofs down easy
onto the shoulders of unborn sons
onto the absence of the clean daughter
who made her price at market.
In the corners of
old outbuildings
on concrete floors
dim light through cobwebs
bad feet, past trimming,
wince and jig.
Old straw and baler twine
all shit green
can never come clean.
Skin-cracked hands, too deep
can never come clean.
Only the lambs still protest –
bleat and shake their airborne heads
not having guessed yet.
Without the waterproofing
of conversation
finally the blood soaks into him.
All the blood of all his beasts.
Waterlogged,
like heavy timber long at sea
he sinks below the surface.
At some point soon after graduating in Philosophy and Physics at Oxford, David Knowles abandoned a long-standing ambition to become a philosopher – in order to train as a pilot in the RAF. David has recently retired from the RAF after 25 years of flying to focus on writing, fishing, crofting and running Two Ravens Press, the publishing house near Ullapool which he founded with his wife, Sharon Blackie. His first collection of poetry Meeting the Jet Man will be published by Two Ravens Press in October 2008.