Running at Trearddur Bay
All ghosts. The wavering gull with a notch in its sooty wing, chuckling like a philosopher aloft on some truth you should know. Your stuttering blood. The slipstream of your steps drifting from echo to eclipse, slow quick slow. On your lips a gloss of salty mist finer than unwritten hymns. One blundering sky. The underbelly of thunder, a gray language as vast as the last unknown throat to erode the standing stones of its vowels. An orange tennis ball stamped with a paw print, dropped in sloppy sand to soak in tide pools of lost momentum, a blazing globe poised to roll with all living motion from this coastal arc of turbulence, the black crags blanketed in chaos of bladderwrack, the homes on the headland like exposed bone, reaching as far as you can alone.
Matthew James Babcock teaches writing and literature at BYU-Idaho in Rexburg. He has authored two poetry collections, Points of Reference (Folded Word) and Strange Terrain (Mad Hat); one essay collection, Heterodoxologies (Educe Press); a critical study, Private Fire: Robert Francis’s Ecopoetry and Prose (U. of Delaware Press); and two forthcoming fiction titles, Future Perfect (Ferry Street) and Four Tales of Troubled Love (Harvard Square Editions).