Midsummer Dream House

 

the devil’s bridge

no matter where i be   i do look down to the hands
   see them covered in our tacky peat

here people ask   are you a garden-er?
   of sorts   i say   as if i can get close to it

and even here by the lakes   i can’t wash them
off   a man in the continual act of burial

and the hills and the bridges and people try
to stop me   all the scrubbing   editing

takes you further from cleanliness   all my moments
   tied into the filth of this old fuel

once a last chance income for the lost medievaller
   i am the lindow man himself   you know?   it is me

always a leathered heart creaking for lost beats
   always some kind of turbid memory to search for

sometimes preservation is progress   sometimes
   i pull oak from the ground in wilmslow   and i

pray with it over the river lune
   as if a trip up the M6 means salvation   redemption

 

morning in a city 

a cross hangs from the wall   the fall of winter
is heavy on old panes and the thin arms
of my pale friend droop like weeds
over snow covered hills   the soft canter
of her blood pumping on my ribs   still
i cannot reach her at this time

we could be a hopper   i’m sure
you’ve seen the one
a train pulls out the station below
   it cuts through the drumming
maybe we will grow old   maybe
there will be a rome for us   and maybe

i will learn to separate my stomach
   this soul   from shadows of dionysus
like a salmon’s final swim   these moments
were born to be forgotten   or consumed
if i try hard enough i know what it is
to be the rain   landing on tired hotels

 

Poetry by Brandon T Bennett

 

 

Brandon T Bennett is a Northern English poet from Manchester, UK. A father of two, his debut pamphlet will be published by Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers in early 2024. Other examples of his work can be found in Broken Sleep Books, Live Canon, and BRAG Writers Literary Magazine. X: @BrandonThomasB