dash

Lost Ground



“walking through the forest
in your mind
walking through the forest” - Gael Turnbull


forest floor

from
the plasticine-like mud
that captures our tread
so scrupulously

to
 
the mud
that covers our trousers and boots

They walk through the woods and agree
how difficult it is to know
what’s happening on the ground.

from being told
on tv
how people are fleeing their homes

to

thousands of pinpricks
of rain
on a windscreen
being wiped away

They briefly speak about the marches.

from
a nunatak being seen
as a symbol of hope -
poking through an ice sheet -

to

too much being seen
and the sea engulfing
tropical outposts

“Too many have already lost their jobs”, one says.

from
thinking about how wet
the washing
would have been

to

knowing
that you could not have felt
this satisfied
if it had not rained

Both agree there'll be new ways of working.

from
the groynes
running down the beach into the sea

to

roots, like fingers, stretching across
a slippery hillside woodland path

‘You’re only as good
as the last job you do,’ one exclaims.

from a summer tree

to
 
the frost
hanging on
around the shadows
of a tree’s branches
suggesting
its leafier self

They now just want to go to work and get involved and get things done. 

from
the crowd
pushing across the road

to

the few who continue
when the lights
have just turned red

They know their problems aren’t as bad
as those in other parts of the world

from trees
crowding round
to mourn their fallen friends

to
 
a copse surrounded
by a ploughed-up field

or those their grandparents had known.

from not being able to hear
what’s being said
in the cars
that are all around you
but can barely be seen

to

knowing that there’ll be talk
of how little can be seen

They agree that they are not
responsible
for what their ancestors did
or did not do.
from
                                        right now
                                       where this
                                             flailed
                                     hedgerow’s
                               shattered stems
                                           will not
                                               allow
                                   you to forget










the bro-

where this

some years
to

ken line

once happened

ago

Tristan Moss

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear them

logo