Mossbawn Man / by stephenherronold

Words that want to be spoken
Aloud, a satisfying rumble.
Ordinary words weaving wonder.
I try to find my own,
Following in mud-wet footsteps. 

Earth-born verse
Direct, simple
No flowers grow here
Only truth 

Words like meat in stew
Satisfyingly solid
They taste like memory.
Salt of the earth. 

The sentences turn
like the ground beneath a plough
Revealing a Derry archeology
A hundred ordinary heartbreaks.

And yet,
Magic is pulled into the everyday.
The Frosses become a gateway
A crossing worthy of a poem
Greek myths live on
In the London Underground 

I sense every word
Taste them, smell them.
Like peat-scented nights
From a Glengormley childhood.
They feel like hushed secrets
Confided in trust, never forgotten. 

Such a meager ode
A clumsy student, 
Learning his ropes.
While Mossbawn Man,
Has pockets full of words
Like smooth stones.
Dropped in a dark pond,
They ripple still.