“As dead as stone, flint-find, nugget of chalk, I touch it again, I wind it in the sling of mind to pitch it at England and follow its drop to strange fields. II Bone-house: a skeleton in the tongue’s old dungeons. I push back through dictions, Elizabethan canopies, Norman devices, the erotic mayflowers of Provence and the ivied Latins of churchmen to the scop’s twang, the iron flash of consonants cleaving the line. III In the coffered riches of grammar and declensions I found bān-hūs, it...s fire, benches, wattle and rafters, where the soul fluttered a while in the roofspace. There was a small crock for the brain, and a cauldron of generation swung at the centre: love-den, blood-holt, dream-bower. IV Come back past philology and kennings, re-enter memory where the bone’s lair is a love-nest in the grass. I hold my lady’s head like a crystal and ossify myself by gazing: I am screes on her escarpments, a chalk giant carved upon her downs.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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