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Dusk at Dozmary Pool
by Caroline Gill

Wait for the wind on the water of light:
watch as the glass turns to stipples of slate.
A storm from the sea bears down on the site
of Excalibur’s realm. A lady’s fate
is wrapped up in silk from the spider’s lair
on the moorland heights where she hid of late,
with webs in her toes and bats in her hair.
Lie still: you might catch the hoot of an owl.
If the lady clutches her harp, beware,
for her chords and discords will make dogs howl
at the smugglers’ inn when the vixen calls.
South-westerlies swirl in the chimney cowl
and the sword returns to bottomless halls.
The lady will sink without any trace:
she looks like a comet, or star that falls,
and glides like a chough through an empty space.
Crouch by the shore, where a shadow of white
swoops in from Rough Tor, with its granite face.
A storm from the sea bears down on the site:
wait for the wind on the water of light.



First published in Reach Poetry 133, Indigo Dreams Press 2009 (editors Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling)


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