Talbingo

‘Talbingo River’—as one says of bones:

‘Captain’ or ‘Commodore’ that smelt gunpowder

In old engagements no one quite believes

Or understands. Talbingo had its blood

As they did, ran with waters huge and clear

Lopping down mountains,

Turning crags to banks.

Now it’s a sort of aching valley,

Basalt shaggy with scales,

A funnel of tobacco-coloured clay,

Smoulders of puffed earth

And pebbles and shell-bodied flies

And water thickening to stone in pocks.

That’s what we’re like out here,

Beds of dried-up passions.