Gareth Culshaw is from North Wales. He writes poetry and has been published in various magazines over the years in the UK and USA. He is now venturing into other areas of writing although poetry will always be his main interest.

THE LAST HOUSE

The last house just before the turn
before the pillar trees.
Collects the first darkness, loses the
daylight before anyone else.

Its roof sinks into the wood in the evening
front gate closes before my own.
Before the turn into the unknown
it stands broad, but then the introduced black

shadows cloak the walls. The last house,
a step away from the wood, that creeps
up slowly every year. Dropped seeds,
running weeds, suffocating ivy

are all wrapping up its identity.
I see the last house on the canopy line
looking retired and weather worn.
Relieved I don’t live inside.

CANAL WORKER

He walks towards me, his eyes dull.
Dense with passive motion.
Manipulated hooves clap the floor
applauding himself for his duty.

Mole hills of straw, leaden with dung
sit randomly along the path.
Children point, adults frown.
He carries his rear end like some backpack.

Rib cage, barrel shaped, full,
fermenting the meals of man.
Teeth ceramic tile thick, nostrils,
two tunnels that twitch, sigh.

His dozy expression lingers in my
own head. Belts, straps, a guide rope
held in the hand of a young lad.
That leads this beast up and down

the canal path. One kick could break
a man, one stamp crush a foot. But still
the lame animal walks towards me.
His hearse lumber carrying the

weight of death, death of his own kind.

OGWEN VALLEY IN WINTER

When I visited you the last time
you showered me with balls of ice,
smashing into my clothing
hammering at my face.

You created falling white bombs
to slow me down.
Laid out a carpet of frazil for me to
slide, slip, nervously tread.

I could barely see what was in front
as I made my way back to the beginning.
Sheets of glass broke above my head.
I have never known such a change.

When I visited you the last time
I came with open arms, but you didn’t want
me there. Pushing me back until I was so far
away I could not see you anymore.

And that was the last time I visited.

THE WOOD THAT IS BEHIND

Behind me lingers the path
that leads back to the wood.
Brambles snigger in their bridging.
Old limbs released in wind, lie dead.

Trees stand with frowning branches
heavy gusts swirling through.
Nettles grow with stinging tongues,
darkness looms eager to swamp light.

The path meanders to another world
but I keep myself quietly ahead.
The gasping breeze knocks on my mind.
So I keep walking away from the wood.

WINDHOVER

My days are hung in the air,
buzzing wing flaps until a pause.
I patiently wait, eyes dagger the

fighting ring. My talons bull snort,
scaring the moving world. Everything
is below me, I have no morals.

I will never allow the wind to
make me lower myself. You humans
are below me, with your retired instincts.

My world is above yours, our eyes
can never agree. I see things before
you. My beak rips hearts and limbs

showing you how things are really
done around here. There is no grave
in nature, no flowers to soften.

There is no gust or foehn in my
life. I have no need to take a breath.
Everything flows in and out, just as it should.