by Agnes Marton
We wander like this: the Hart,
the Hind (myself), the Kid,
ruminant. Hardly a herd.
We browse through leaves of surrender,
skip for squirrels’ flesh, our buckskin
parches away its mouldish film.
The forest is sharp, rain’s blades
root in handles made of antlers.
I cut a yawn, don’t pull up,
trip but go ahead. At the edge
of the stone river I’m alone,
the boat of Sumerian god Enki’s
on my mind, the Stag
of Azbu. It would take me
from end to end, without ripples,
my hoof wouldn’t be chafed
to disquiet. No boat here though,
just a chafer-grub, I cannot call
my musk people yet.
Agnes Marton is a Hungarian-born poet, writer, librettist, Reviews Editor of The Ofi Press, Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, founding member of Phoneme Media. Recent publications include award-winning ‘Estuary: A Confluence of Art and Poetry’, her poetry collection ‘Captain Fly’s Bucket List’ and four chapbooks with Moria Books (USA). She won the National Poetry Day competition in the UK.
