Prue Chamberlayne lives in London and France. She turned to poetry after a career in comparative social policy, biographic-interpretive research, and a rural project in Uganda. Poems have been accepted by Scintilla, Poetry Wales, Dawntreader, Littoral Magazine, Wild Court and Seventh Quarry Press. Her collection Locks Rust 2019 was warmly reviewed in Poetry Salzburg Review, and a chapbook Beware the Truth that’s Manacled (erbacce-press 2022) in London Grip. A pamphlet Pendulum and second collection Lizard Looks are underway. She still likes https://poetrywales.co.uk/prue-chamberlayne-on-how-she-writes-a-poem/.

The Afterlife of Vineyard Ledges

Mossed emerald skeins among tree trunks
form cabled ribs, each stone as stitch distinct.

Extent of this — always on curves inclined
to full-day sun. Imagine the thud and clink,

still echoed in stonechats, blackcaps, local speech,
as rocks were levered, split, considered, dressed.

Taller walls retained the ancient tracks
where ox-carts carried stone so far, but how

to reach the in-between where dislodged boulders
thundered down at terrifying speed?

Many are trampled now by cattle that roam
the woods for shade, their pathways guiding walkers,

hunters, mushroom pickers, myrtle seekers.
In Spring before new undergrowth, these walls stand out,

explain the big-beamed wine-press in the cave,
barrel hoops above a human head —

short-lived prosperity before phylloxera
caused exodus, an end to songs and repartee.

Air’s So Much More Than Empty Space

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
The Tempest

Our ancestors had Gods
who strode from ochre clouds they used
as chariots and thrones; cherubs
forced wind from bulbous cheeks —
sky was Gods’ thoroughfare for Greeks.

In summer, volcanic cumuli
gold with an underlay of ash
shimmy in contrary directions —
low down, a drape of grey descends,
darkening from East to West.

Shrouding syncopates in drips.
As sunlit rods of glass advance
a quarry tumbles rocks on planks,
calico splits the firmament,
sockets inside sizzle and snap,

translucent beads lance levelly,
melt instantly. Rain on tarmac
cups in military ranks,
trees heave and thrash, while orange blaze
conveys the scale of power unleashed.

Cocoons of mist until, lime-green,
a mound floats up, monk’s pate ringed
in woodland tonsure. The sun conducts,
bids mountains to pyramid, to shrink —
soon they glower in seaweed green.

A small medallion of silver
glints, its quiver stilled. How did it
reach a floor indoors, intact?
Kneel, in homage to this gem,
its journeying.

In Rainsome May

Luminescence preludes patter —
does this vivacity reflect
drenched swathes in high dawn rays?

Pines soften suede,
trunks and cross-hatched branches
dwindle in pallor, glimpsed ridge
behind annuls, the house
encroached by the opaque — both close
and signalling the infinite.

Pines re-emerge, their emerald shoots
painted fingernails.
Mountains poke
through wraith-like cloud.
Verdigris returns — fledged
and toughened leaves bulk trees,
shade solidifies the valley-side.

At eventide, parade of clouds,
gilded by fiery frills.