Myth
by and published in Edition Five of Pomegranate
I
This is an old hearse
and it travels the night
through the dust of street lamps, finding
conversation with the shadow-owls
and the horseflies.
There is no voice
behind its red wheel, until
the howls begin.
II
There are squarblings
on this ridge
where I can be anything.
I am the solitary mister,
the singer, the herdsman,
the plant whisperer, I take
the sun for walks
through its own reflection.
There is never enough green
to rough the edges
of the yellow treading
or the distant singing
of the windmills.
III
We laughed as we melted
the ruins
with our blowtorches.
An escape was made
by the night-men
And their shallow murmuring,
the birds speaking
with their elders,
always scared of the Minotaur
and plump with the day’s satisfaction.
IV
The pages closed
on our advance.
We were heavily bitten, you
pondering the sea-hours spent
watching a flower’s maternal twitches.
The final rest was spent
under the long black square
shadowing the road
clutching
the new frost.
James Macnamara
James Macnamara is 17 years old and studying towards entry into Cambridge University to read English. He intends to live in Shakespeare and Company in Paris for a year before University… or at the very least spend a year in France learning French. His poetic achievements involve entering the Peterloo competition and Christopher Tower Poetry Prizes unsuccessfully. He enjoys painting and playing ukulele when not playing with funny word combinations, and receives advice on his poetic efforts from poet and novelist Gareth Calway.