Fisher - Standard Midland

From the grave-clothesthey fall in gobbets as dog-foodfalls from the can. We wrap themin fresh dry linen. Theybless our lives with their happiness. Walk them around the valley. Drop here a finger for the god that is a rat or a raven, here a metatarsal to set under the hearth for luck. And what was luck? The afterlife back then was fairly long: nothing demented like for ever, nothing military.

Commons without commoners the Unadopted. A footpath worn from corner to corner. Wormwood. And how at the edge the hoardings paralyse words high up in the common air. John Cage on a bland enough midwestern campus: use random meansto set coordinates thenhang around at the intersectionall day if need be. Therellbe something to interest you!

Four gods making common cause at the people. Moreover beings of what seemed flesh would lately float on gables or range themselves on a wall, supported by chi in the clear air under them that showed the hillside beyond it. Their burning gaze to rain down still while they faded. Driving down off Axe Edge on the hot afternoon of the day that would end with the full moon hung on the horizon at twice its size, rounding a familiar bend then both of us seeing differently the anomaly ahead, tall brown figure in a limestone landscape. Reared on a crag to command the desolate stock-car track, the quarry and the valley of the Dove. Eyeless, dynamic, brutal, maybe a public sculpture giant in rusted sheet metal, another expensive mistake.

Pass by the threat and it goes back nearer Nature: the three old horses that always amble in the boggy roadside fields have criss-crossed the bluff, growing bigger all the while. Theyve arranged themselves on the naked steps of the summit and stand there asleep as a single conjoined thing against the sky waiting for the enormous moon to land and take them up. Stone horn-shapes above a peaceful enough gateway and in the High Great Chamber a plaster frieze where beasts and tall women walk by among the trees in the woodland above it all. There are parts of kings, brown old thigh-bones, shin-bones, jaws, promiscuous teeth packed out of reach in their own air on high stone rails ready in their chests to travel. Odours of shellfish and salmon rising from marble counters in the pomp of the market defer to the palms ranged above. Masque in the Aquarium tank breasting the view floor up to roof where the skirts swish through the murk and sharks ride up and pass Sunday 6.30 Rev.

Handel Broadbent IF I BE LIFTED UP Indeed. If so he be. The phut and fall of a late firework. Where the Lugg between its alders wriggles and winds fed once for a season or two with the leached-out seepage driven down by the rain out of hundreds of corpses, some where Pilleths ghostly church squats on the dead, others across the cropped slope of Bryn Gls, buffered now with alien fir. The four Wellingtonias planted low down, late and pictorially as if hoping to settle the matter stretching their single dark plumes towards the ridge stopper the sightline along the valley and make us a view.

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