What is it that resides in fruit
that makes them want to come to be;
that despite the cyanide in their seeds,
they recite the psalms of birth again?
and limbs renew their umbels,
and gloat over berries
that resemble beaded wax wrapped
around the base of candlesticks,
lamented off the wick,
red, black, white
currants all end crushed and seeping.
In the gut, so often,
of happy-for-now, frothed, souse-alive souls
lapping at the tap in summer,
root and cap in service to the molly-drip
cucking and chewing their prickly lips
whilst pulling the hops from bines
that make the drink for Autumn.
Until the apple of October grows an onion skin,
which thinly cracks,
then drops its broken laminate, like brittle plastic peeled
or sun-burnt skin,
baffled to the floor
and trees unduffle leaves,
who, shed too, dustbound, lie
in crisp reticulation
like little maps of lost, gone, cracked and long, long over-written things:
the spaces in the henge;
dendrite mineral-laced coral veins
unwashed fish-lack harbours left abandoned, over-oiled;
or the unfenced ancient hills unfit for homes
but swarmed with cwm.
Christopher Cornwell lives, studies and works in Swansea, his poetry has been featured in The Lonely Crowd, New Welsh Review, The Lampeter Review and Wales Arts Review for whom he also contributes criticism. He was the featured poet in issue 6 of The Crunch multimedia poetry magazine and is the current head editor of The Gull online magazine. His first collection, Ergasy, is published by The Lonely Press.
© Christopher Cornwell, 2017. Image © Jo Mazelis, 2017.