Canto V – Torrent Mouth

“The tides beat the shore, flung there at times

onto the stones and the sands of its cliffs

the weeds and waves, then I am struggling,

covered by tidal forces, rousing the earth,”

-        Riddle 2

It is a pretty thing, indeed,

to be loved by painters of any creed –

the mouth of the torrent curtains down

the valleyed oesophagus – myrtle-clad,

rose-clad, folding and folding,

a frothing, spitting steed –

this two-headed flux

is sea bound and singing,

carrying pithy courtship

and crushing calamity

within its smaller twin –

this surge, this beast,

this Lyn.

He came with his entourage

to flee the pillow of state;

thirty cottages and a fort

of Myrtleberry – a home removed

from tyranny’s fate.

Nestled and kneaded

in sweet river whispers

and wind whistles, Shelley

ogled whitebeams and came to know

the flood of ages combatting below –

he taught his words to battle and balk

and sent them on the Devil’s walk,

and when news returned that the

brass had seized his faithful Hill,

this man – this foppish rebel –

could not be still, and wrote

and cursed and fled to Tremadoc,

and left the torrent his cosmic bill.

The river watched and held its tongue

but later slashed its liquid lung –

a century, hence, it remembered to pay

and chose this cosy idyll for its prey –

great rabid suds and seeking waves

pried the banks and sought the graves.

So now, abstain from reciting his lines:

for all must ask in fragile breath,

how wonderful –

truly –

is death?

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