Over 40 years
at the cutting edge
of poetry publishing

Cliff Forshaw, from Vandemonian

Land Fall in Abel’s Garden

…and the Dreaming dreamed itself an island
in the shape of the human heart:
an unmoored rock, but fertile,
drifting way off from mainland
while wind and rain dissolved its shores.

And mists hung about its beaches,
caught themselves in trees, straggled
branches, blurring upland reaches.
Elsewhere shrugged itself to driftwood,
fetched up, half-worked, sea-wrack.

And this Dreaming dreamed itself Trowenna;
seems it dreamed and stranded
clumps of its people on this island:
few in shy groups tending
small fires on its fringes,
slowly raising middens
of shellfish from the sea.