Monday, 31 July 2017

A poem by Mat Riches

Person Buried Up To Their Neck In A Forest

In here no one hears trees falling, or do they?
I have listened, but lost interest and the will;
being too caught up in the rushes of blood in my ears
and in the high noises of forest animals.

I no longer have it in me to even sweat,
or can no longer be really sure it’s me.
It could be moisture, or the leeching of water tables.
What’s left of my clothes barely offers up heat.

I have had to learn to be comfortable
pissing myself, like an old hand deep-sea diver.
It’s all I have left to feel now, and manages to just
remind me I am at least for now still alive.

I’d always doubted the industry of ants,
of stag beetles or the sheer point of centipedes.
I suspect that in the real long run I will become theirs,
and accept now I have no choice but to believe.

How did it get to this, to be this in the dark?
I’ve got a lungful of air left here, you may as well ask.

Mat Riches lives in Beckenham, Kent, but will always have Norfolk in his heart. He is a father to Florence and a husband to Rachael, and by day he is a mild-mannered researcher in the TV industry.
He has previously been published in And Other Poems, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Obsessed With Pipework and Snakeskin Press. He is about yea high.
Twitter: @matriches

1 comment: