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Matt Garrett
Matt has been a member of the Blackmountain Writers for about four years. He was involved in the Poetry in Motion initiative and was published in their most recent poetry anthology and had a poem inscribed on the glass sculpture. He enjoys writing poetry and short stories, but will attempt any form of writing. He is currently taking an arts and humanities degree through the Open University.
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Storm over Killiney Bay
by Matt Garrett
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(Hurricane Charley 1986)
From up here
I thought I could see almost everything.
Limits seemed close to the touch,
watching head waves heave, crest then crash
washing Killiney with salt spray lash.
Sodden heather soaking in, softened shoe leather,
moss rusted lumber, natures dust to dust.
Rocks dappled like little monument stones
feral goats paying selfish respect
dead heading, chewing, constantly moving.
Hard driving rain, forced against blackthorn
again and again,
joisting for position, the here and there jerk
nipping and pulling, coats stripped, torn and plucked.
Birds courting plans for springs nestling,
but expletives of territory come first.
From here I pondered those immortal words
as the rawness of wind vented it’s scourge
clouds changing shape, heaven’s gargoyles
spitting fury in torrents below.
Was this the cold eye to cast out on life?
As storm drains heaved choked with leaves
thunderclaps applauding performing cows trapped in fields
two steps forward, three short back
fear consuming all further advances.
Battened down under gale
hatching plans to depart
the flooded river below, bream dodging trout.
But in the eye of the storm, this question remained:
was this the cold eye cast out once again?
For heron they grappled muddy broken banks
struggling to loot with the evening rise,
community’s resigned from the rape of the flow,
the pull of the ebb dragging death, deep below.
In the pool above weir no calm rippled rings,
torrents submerging, everything seized.
Riverside bars, cafes, amusements,
undertaker’s carriage rendered to useless.
Reclaimed driftwood floating with fly
Silk lining soaked, brass glinting to cast cold eye.
All life remained blameless; this was nature’s wrath
as the deathly horseman passed me by.
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