Monday 5 May 2014

2 Poems by Byron Beynon


The sound of doors
shutting inside
anonymous rooms
during the quiet
hours when there is still
light rusting
in a remote sky;
the atmosphere clears
like a table
after a meal,
the long distance of yesterday
creeps in
faded like a memory
caught in a yellow beam,
untouchable like a silent
photograph developed
in the mind,
retention breathing
inside a native ground
patient as discovery.


For long hours the horses have stood
in the rain,
in landscapes washed
by a stained canvas of sky,
quenched grass, a bruised green,
they occupy a torso of field
knowing the squall of the day will pass,
the focus of their stare
beyond hedges shaped by the wind;
from the Bucephalus of history
they sense ancestors at wars,
loaded carts and carriages pulled
through mud,
a focus within art,
the racing-reelers of cinema,
each eye haunted by echoes of arid plains
as the jewelled water exudes over them.


Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including
Agenda, Quadrant (Australia), Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Warwick review,
and The Worcester Review
(USA). Recent collections include Cuffs (Rack Press) and Human Shores (Lapwing Publications). A Pushcart Prize nominee.  <>

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