Marion Oxley

Marion Oxley is originally from Manchester but has been living amongst the flood plains of the Calder Valley, West Yorkshire for many years. Her poems are published widely in journals and anthologies.

Deluge

      after a Calderdale folktale of Gabriel Ratchets; spectral hounds and the hunting of Lady Sybil
     who takes the form of a doe and is also thought to be a witch.

 
The valley is saturated, full to the brim,
          a prayer bowl carried in anxious hands.
 
A woman strides out, walks the rim from moor to crag
          sings to the wind of the substance of things not seen.
 
Breath dances in droplets, shapes form in a mist
          spreading out beyond the black and white gates,
 
the lock unpicked, a question mark waiting; a cormorant
          lost, sea-wings spread; a crucifix in the cold sun.
 
A glide of Canada Geese heads held high
          hiss a warning, pink tongues quivering.
 
And the dog spoke of you last night
of the shiver of milk-white skin
of slender legs cleansed in the river
the pendulum swing of a racing heart
          of when suspicion slid to a stop
 
in the moonlight the turn and weight
of your belly, a boulder flung down
from the out-crop, the arch of your hips
sprung    making ready for the leap,
          flames licking at your heels.
 
You’ll burn in hell, they said.
 
Listen to the thrum coming up
          from underground, the hillside shifting, the movement.
 
In the rush and swell, push to the surface     a split in bedrock.
 
Riven   granite clouds   release a yelp   a howl left circling
          the siren’s wail chasing tales out across the valley.
 

Marion Oxley

Second prize in The Red Shed Poetry Competition 2019. Published in a pamphlet of winning poems by Currock Press.

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