Mast Year / Helplessness Subscale

by Polly Atkin

beech shells falling a storm of them sheeting
down siling down it is terrible
and I think it is never going to get any better
plut plut plut plut on the cobbles huge
rippling drops falling to a swelling
flood sinking into the mud then welling
out of the mud it is awful and I feel
that it overwhelms me the ground throwing
them up as the branches throw them down
the lane drowned under the sudden river
washed clean of itself I worry all the time
about whether the pain will end and they
become the lane and the lane crunches
under your feet I feel I cannot
stand it any more with each
step into winter I feel I cannot
go on which might last seven years
which you may emerge from altered owing
some kind of tithe there is nothing I can do
to reduce the intensity of the pain