For a Liturgy

by Jason Watts

location.                    Not done in a flat field. Or full view
                                  of roads. To be cold. The tufted frosted
                                  clumps of winter grass to have been
                                  less regularly topped. Where spent ragwort
                                  stubbornly and bronze bracken, desiccate
                                  stalks mostly, litter and untidy. Where
                                  fallen skew old fences trail
                                  ragged tripwires. Untidy yes, but
                                  not full wild. Allow
                                  one pioneer sitka poking
                                  on its nerves on gone farmland.

practice.                     Need an odd-shaped piece of ice. Kidney
                                  or ear. Held up to the light. Hold it: see that
                                  the thin winter sun picks out the ice’s
                                  incipient fern and broken bar-ingot
                                  emergent. The ice in hand
                                  to be a lens; as it melts it will concentrate,
                                  distort and reverse, and the dark band,
                                  the trees, will lift eccentric
                                  and exact, miniaturised along the now
                                  flint-flaked edge, strict
                                  against the sky where birdcalls carry.

voice.                         To be amphitheatric only
                                  in the shape the throat and mouth make
                                  calling across a deep water-filled
                                  quarry, the possibility of yourself.