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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 4, December 2014


Claire Norman
Chelmsford, Essex, England

Then One Began . . .

Damp grass, the smell of rain in the air and cow-parsley gone to seed. I really should have pulled it up, but I like it when the wild things come into my garden. I'm surrounded by walls—by a modern, sprawling estate full of tarmacked paths. So tame. I can't see far. What was it like before?

I look back
winter's dusk lingers
in the wildfowl's home
sedge is flowering
and you almost see me

It's high here. There would have been marsh running down to the river, boggy in summer, flooded in winter. I wonder where the thyrs went when they drained the land. Do they cease to exist when no-one believes in them, or do they roam? Do they hunger like Grendel the grim and greedy, the eater of men? The houses go right down to the river now.

winter moon
rising in the long twilight
they tread
lightly in the shadows
and breathe through my words



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