print previewback G.C. WALDREP
St. Winifred’s Well (2)
these beams that were living beams—
these arcs that were living arcs—
600 years ago—the forest of souls
discloses—as beneath a wind—
in the distance, lambs huddled
as they do now, in evil weather—
& some bear hatchet-marks
(according to the diary, “to take plaster”—
to be buried
in a green thing—in this grave
of slaughtered oak—the rain slakes
what it can no longer succor—
I sleep within the forest’s cist—
(& my feet, now oddly whole,
I who have not suffered
with a worker’s praise—
We are common in this way
tracing the glistening surface—
cast down into the body’s pure end
which is fire, & fire’s perfect dream—
wood’s oblate memory—the rings
with which the pagans
mark their earthly marriage vows—
at the heart the living bone—
(but Drink from me, if my Lord wills— 
The Abandoned Hour
The Lame Take the Prey
River Bytham
St. Winifred’s Well (2)