On Ēglond


It’s as if someone offers you a message.
Do you receive me?

The transmission interrupted by crows,
growing dark bristles and claws.

The song swallowed by a sinkhole,
then thrown up after centuries
as mutterings of a bog-queen.

The dispatch intercepted by a cold wind,
snagged on too many thorns.

Torn up, chewed on, translated, left for dead.

Gehyrest þu?



/ they told you you were singing
/ they told you you were wandering round chambers of the caves at dawn
/ they told you you’ve grown old
/ they told you someone else is occupying your bed
/ they told you nothing except departure
/ they told you day is an outbreak
/ they told you 3 and 6 and 9 and 9
/ they told you many hardships, all that was taken hold of
/ they told you fucking oak trees
/ they told you the loathsome one, who travels on the earth
/ they told you you were the missing chapter from a lost epic
/ they told you you were a dog in a riddle
/ they told you you were the riddle
/ that’s not what the crow told you
/ how can you misspell a name when you don’t have any letters
/ the past is on fire and you are running from it
/ running with it
/ when a hard wind blows they’ll know where you’ve been


A Method, A Plan by Rowan Evans

From A Method, A Plan. Reproduced with kind permission of Bloomsbury Publishing.

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